


Dungeons & Striders

by Mortior



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Homestuck
Genre: 500-Year Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Animal Death, Asphyxiation, Background Character Death, Body Dysmorphia, Borderline Necrophilia (Undead), Brief Self-Injury, Buried "Alive", D&Dstuck, Enemies to Lovers, Erectile Dysfunction, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Incest if you squint, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Necromancy, Poisoning, Religion, Stridercest - Freeform, Temporary Main Character Death, Terminal Illness (Cured), Undead, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortior/pseuds/Mortior
Summary: After the royal family of Derse is murdered, Prince Dirk Strider mysteriously wakes up in his grave and embarks on a 500-year quest for revenge.Meanwhile, Dave Strider is the last of a royal lineage that was almost wiped out 500 years ago, and now his undead ancestor has arrived in Prospit to kill their family's murderer...If the paladin and the lich don't kill each other first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled "Vengeance & Dragons," this Dirk/Dave D&Dstuck fanfic was written for the Summer 2019 Stridercest zine! 
> 
> You do not need to read Homestuck or play Dungeons & Dragons to read this fic (Disclaimer: Some of the rules/lore have been tweaked for plot purposes).

Dirk knew he was dead the moment the dragon opened its mouth and spewed forth a cloud of sickly yellow gas. 

His mother screamed, and his father made it only a few steps from the throne before they both fell to the ground clutching their throats. He didn’t wait to see what became of the guards and the rest of the royal court, but heard their strangled choking as he turned to flee the cloud of poison. By chance alone, he’d been standing closest to the door behind the throne. He turned away from his dying family and ran through the heavy wooden door and down the hallway, then up the spiral staircase to the living quarters. His eyes watered and his nose stung, and an ominous pain gathered in his chest as he ran, growing sharper and more alarming with every breath.

The man had arrived at the castle gates with a caravan of goods and finery. A “merchant lord,” he presented himself, large and imposing in stature, and boasting an entourage of his own servants and armed guards. Dirk was disinterested in visitors on a good day, and this merchant lord English was just one more in a long line of greedy, opportunistic sycophants, but tradition required a formal audience. All the usual precautions were taken, with the royal guard standing at attention and the entire court in attendance, as the king and queen of Derse welcomed their guest. Dirk ignored the conversation that followed, his mind wandering to diversions more interesting than trade routes and business transactions. He paid little attention to the merchant’s strange, malicious smile as his unreasonable demands were rebuked. When finally ordered to leave, the man laughed and bared his teeth, then transformed into a monster that filled the royal chamber’s vaulted ceiling. Its disfigured reptilian face hung low, a nightmarish vision of exposed bone and flesh between rotting patches of dull green scales, hollow eyes, and teeth like rows of jagged swords. The guards had no time to react before its huge maw parted to exhale death upon the royal family.

Dirk stumbled up the spiral staircase and threw himself against the door to his room, fumbling for the latch and falling hard on his knees when it swung open. He scrambled up, coughing and wheezing at the spreading fire in his lungs as he stumbled and caught himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over vials and stacks of books and paper. His pet raven Hal gave an alarmed, indignant croak from its perch on the windowsill, eyeing him disapprovingly as he swept his arms across the desk, caring little for the glassware and decorative baubles that shattered on the floor. From downstairs he heard the muffled calamity of what might be the remaining castle guards as they fell to the dragon’s teeth and claws.

As first-in-line to the throne, Dirk had been exposed to all manner of education in his nineteen years of life. He’d excelled at sword fighting and battle strategies, but had woefully little talent for magic and potions, and hadn’t invested the effort to correct that deficiency in his skillset. Now, he scrambled for his neglected manual on potion-making, coughing blood onto its pages as he searched for the chapter on medicine. He turned to the cabinet next to his desk and threw its contents to the floor as he dug through the shelves for the necessary equipment. He began to cry in frustration and mortal terror as he fumbled with the flint to light the burner, unable to take a breath without wheezing. His eyesight was too blurry now to read the manual’s pages, but the diagrams jogged his memory, and he filled a small flask with water and secured it over the flame. Dirk had never put much stock into gods, but in this moment he closed his eyes and paused, trembling in pain and fear, and begged for salvation from any of the higher powers that might hear his plea.

At first, his intention was to brew a restorative potion that would neutralize the poison, but the ingredients and steps eluded his panicked memory. Instead, he tore through the drawers of his workbench for whatever dried herbs and organic-looking components he could find, crushing them in his hands and adding them to the simmering flask. Halfway through, he remembered part of the antitoxin recipe (or was it a healing potion?) and added a few vials of powdered minerals that no one had bothered to label properly. He felt dizzy and disoriented, grabbing ingredients at random, while a vision of curves and sharp corners etched itself into his mind’s eye. He scrambled for a charcoal pencil and tried to copy the symbols onto the wooden surface of his desk. The result was a circular pattern that radiated out from the center in strange, jagged runes and sigils, and the growing sense that something vital was still missing.

The strength in Dirk’s legs gave out momentarily, and he sank to the floor while the flask bubbled with his murky, improvised concoction. His necklace slipped out of his shirt, dangling and spinning in his blurry field of view, a small pendant medallion with the Strider family crest - two birds, one white and one black, with an upright claymore between them in the center. Dirk knelt on the floor and struggled to breathe, unable to take in enough air to cry the way he wanted to, knowing his parents were dead and no one would come to his aid. He felt helpless and scared, but the longer he sat, the more it began to feel like this was a dream, his thoughts turning slow and muddled with that familiar, subconscious haze.

His pet raven flew from its perch to the floor and hopped towards him, begrudgingly curious of his erratic behavior. Never a good pet by any measure, Hal was a surly and vindictive animal that seemed to only tolerate Dirk’s presence and outright rejected all others, even as it bit his fingers while he fed it fruit and table scraps. An ill-advised gift from his early teenage years, Dirk’s parents had urged him to get rid of it, but even after he stopped clipping its wings and left the windows open, Hal returned every day to preen its feathers on his windowsill and judgmentally watch over whatever task he was working on, occasionally ripping up his books or scattering the supplies on his desk, even stealing his smaller keepsakes. But Dirk was lonely in his role as king-to-be, and took the abuse as payment for the raven’s company. Now the bird hopped onto his hand and regarded him with offended expectation, as though demanding tribute in apology for the disruption. Dirk wept silently as he held his unsuspecting pet, then reached out and seized the bird’s head in his other hand, twisting and pulling as the raven flapped its wings in wild panic, then continued after its head was gone and the muscles spasmed in death.

Clutching the edge of his desk with one hand and the raven’s body in the other, Dirk dragged himself to his feet and held it over the flask, its blood dripping into the bubbling, off-brown liquid. The sound of calamity in the throne room had ceased, and now he heard the dissonant clang and clash of weapons in the courtyard. The raven’s body thumped to the floor as he lost his grip, unable to hold himself up without leaning on his elbows, his vision going dark around the edges. Dirk grabbed his necklace and broke the fragile silver chain, then dropped it with shaking, bloodied fingers into the center of the runes on his desk. He then reached out, half-blind and delirious, for the neck of the boiling flask. 

His fingertips touched glass, and a spark jumped between them, like static electricity that left his skin feeling cold and numb.

Dirk barely kept his grip on the flask as his legs gave out for the last time and his knees hit the floor. His chest and throat burned like he was sucking air through a hot coal. He cradled the flask and stared down in hazy confusion at the result of his desperate efforts; _inkwell black and colder than the stone against his knees, with tiny glittering flecks of gold that drifted and sparkled like stars in the void_. He lifted the flask to his mouth and drank deep, vaguely noting the absence of any discernible taste or smell, a thickness like fresh cow’s milk, and a feeling cold enough to burn on the way down.

Dirk swallowed until the flask was empty, then doubled over as a new, blinding agony tore through him, the flask slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor. He tried to scream in pain, but couldn’t find the air to fill his lungs. It felt like he’d swallowed molten acid, and he tried to retch, but his throat was sealed shut, and a fresh wave of panic sent him crawling towards the open door. His fingernails broke against the stone as he gagged and choked, his other hand reaching out at the descending staircase and the possibility of help that would never come. He rolled onto his side and began frantically pulling at the fabric of his shirt, unable to think beyond a mindless, primal need for air, before his hands lost their coordination and his thrashing grew weak, slow, and clumsy before it stopped.

There were no final words for the prince, his family dead and his ancestral home ransacked by “bandits” who came disguised as merchants and plundered the castle. Rumors of a monster would reach the surrounding townsfolk, but almost none had seen evidence of the beast, apart from those who entered the castle and witnessed the throne room in ruins. The dead were retrieved and given a hasty, but solemn burial, and the royal family was mourned with genuine regret for their passing, but there was no vengeance to be had, for the caravan had already departed with their ill-gotten spoils, and no one dared pursue them.

In the cold and quiet, a light had gone out - one of many that met a tragic and premature end. 

Several days passed, and in the darkness below ground, a golden ember still glowed - weak and tenuous, an unnatural remnant of the life it once held.

At the end of the third day, Dirk opened his eyes.

He expected the stone floor of his room, or even a soft bed after an unlikely but welcome rescue. Instead, he was met by darkness and a smothering weight that pressed in from all sides. He tried to move, and found himself not only smothered, but wrapped in fabric. He struggled to pull the cloth from his face and yell for help, but his mouth immediately filled with dirt, and a true hysteria gripped him at the realization of what had happened. Dirk fought and thrashed, clawing his way out of the fabric and digging, frantic and blind, at the endless ceiling of dirt above him. Although his mouth and nose filled with it, the burn for air in his lungs never came. As the minutes passed, he was forced to slow down from exhaustion, and as the panic wore off, confusion set in. Dirk continued to dig and climb, until his hands broke through into the cold night air.

The moon, although close to full, was hidden by thick clouds that sprinkled rain. It wasn’t enough to soak the ground yet, but had still discouraged the townsfolk from staying outdoors after dark, and the night was silent besides the gentle tapping of raindrops. Dirk’s fingers sank into the soft earth as he fought to pull himself free, dragging his body from the hole in the ground where he'd broken through. He sat up and tried to wipe the grime from his eyes, then paused in dumbfounded shock at his surroundings.

Dirk knew someone had buried him, and thought at first that it had been a mistake. He knew stories about people who were gravely injured and fell into a coma, then woke many days later against the odds, some of them after being mistaken for dead. He thought perhaps the same had happened to him, that he’d somehow survived the dragon’s poison and slept to recovery in a premature grave. Now he sat naked apart from the burial shroud still tangled around his legs, covered in dirt and mud, and staring in silent disbelief at the gravestones around him. The ornate iron fence and exquisitely carved statues marked this as the royal family’s partition, and he turned to behold the row of solemn graves alongside his own. The night was dark, but he could see the freshly-chiseled names of his parents and relatives in perfect, unnatural clarity. He forcefully ignored his own gravestone, clinging to the empty hope that this was all a misunderstanding, but then he looked down at himself and beheld the discolored, parchment-like texture of his skin, and found that despite freeing himself some time ago, he’d forgotten to fill his lungs and breathe.

Dirk stumbled to his feet and clutched the burial shroud around himself like a thin, meager cloak. The cold air didn’t bother him, but he was mindful of his shriveled skin and emaciated body, and he dared not go into town like this. Instead, he made for the line of trees that surrounded the graveyard on the edge of town and the dense forest beyond, where he would spend the first several days hiding and regaining his strength. He found a small pond and beheld his own reflection in the water, and it reminded him of illustrations he’d seen about legendary knights that fought the living dead. His face looked gaunt and dry, like he’d suffered a long illness and wasted away while bedridden, but his eyes glowed with an unnatural fire, almost like sunlit amber. He wondered if he’d become a zombie somehow, but he’d read that zombies were not creatures of rational thought, having lost their memories of life and their autonomy to become mindless servants of whoever raised them from the dead. 

Dirk couldn’t put a name or a reason to what had happened to him, but he knew his life was over. Hunger and thirst never came, and it wasn’t until a week had passed that he would begin entering nearby towns and villages with nothing but a stolen cloak and scarf to hide his face. He sought libraries and council with elderly keepers of knowledge who wouldn’t linger on his fanatical insistence at covering himself, nor grow suspicious of the raspy wheeze of his voice. He blamed an unnamed illness for his physical state, and this was enough to satisfy their curiosity.

It was from one such lonely old scholar, whose near-blindness and penchant for rambling conversation was a boon, that Dirk learned of a particularly rare and powerful type of undead called a lich. These were creatures of unspeakable evil that had transferred their souls into an object for safekeeping, before possessing their own dead body to continue in a perverted state of undeath. They were nearly invulnerable, and would regenerate even if defeated, unless the object that contained their soul, their “phylactery,” was found and destroyed. They specialized in necromancy and other dark magics, and were hunted by those who worshiped benevolent gods, most of all by clerics and paladins. Any spellcasting creature could become a lich if the correct ritual was followed. This involved a sacrifice and the brewing of a mysterious, lethal potion that would kill its drinker, only for them to wake several days later if the ritual had been a success. And yes, the old man said after Dirk asked, even something as powerful as a dragon could similarly become a dracolich, and such a creature, already a destructive blight on the world in life, would become immortal and virtually invincible in undeath.

Dirk returned to his ancestral home, cursing his foolishness for leaving without the pendant medallion that he knew now contained his immortal soul. He’d fled out of shame and grief, hoping that someone from the castle had survived to pick up the pieces, but months had passed since then, and he found the castle abandoned and the town a mere shadow of itself. He slipped into the streets after dark and made small talk with a few homeless beggars who told him the story of the royal family’s murder by bandits disguised as merchants, and of how the struggling kingdom of Derse had joined with that of a neighboring ally. This had triggered the former capital town’s slow decay as its people migrated to safer, more prosperous lands.

Dirk waited until the following night to enter the castle, and found it practically stripped bare. Whether it had been his family's murderers, opportunistic scavengers, or someone trying to preserve the artefacts of his family’s legacy, they had taken everything from the furniture to the tapestries on the walls. His room was similarly picked clean, save for the broken glass and bloodstains on the floor. Dirk returned to the throne room and faced the empty dais where his father and mother once sat. He knelt on the steps in the broken moonlight from the shattered glass windows, and in that solemn reverence, he vowed to use his undeath, whether it had been a mistake or some cruel form of divine intervention, to kill the dracolich and avenge his family. If he was condemned to this false life, then he would dedicate himself completely to revenge. It wouldn’t bring his family back or undo their suffering, but there was nothing else left for the prince, now an unholy shell of his former self. The dracolich would suffer justice, or Dirk would truly die trying and rejoin his family in the end.

Thus began the first hundred years, wherein Dirk would master the foundations of simple arcane magic. He’d had woefully little talent for the art in life, and sought out teachers and mentors who didn’t ask too many questions. Even after learning to disguise himself and regain the appearance of a living person, his true nature was not so easy to hide. This was less of a problem in small, remote villages where spellcasters were rare, but he learned the hard way that people with religious connections and divine abilities could detect his undead aura. He was forced to drop the disguise and flee on more than one occasion, never putting up more of a fight than necessary and adopting one false identity after another. He traveled across kingdoms in search of knowledge and teachers to hone his skills, for this century was a matter of survival first and foremost. He learned how to cast spells and walk unnoticed amongst living people, and even how to hide his undead aura from all but the most powerful divine spellcasters, and this would serve him well in his hunt for the dracolich.

The next century was spent learning the dark, forbidden magics. These came to him naturally after he’d mastered the basics, and Dirk lived in solitude for many decades, practicing his necromancy on small animals and the occasional feral dog or farm animal. This type of magic seemed especially prone to attracting violent do-gooders, and thus Dirk had his first disastrous encounter with a group of paladins - holy knights that gained their power through reverence and devotion to a benevolent god, and used that power to hunt and smite evil creatures and the undead. Dirk barely escaped, and was forced to keep moving as he spent the next several years seeking out forbidden tomes on more powerful and deadly necromantic spells. He’d vowed long ago to avoid hurting innocent people in his quest for revenge, but that close encounter had him feeling vulnerable and paranoid that his efforts might amount to nothing if he couldn’t protect himself. Offence was the best defence, and Dirk learned how to drain the life force of living creatures, and even paralyze or kill the weak and injured with a single spoken word. It helped put his mind at ease, but he also assured himself that these were last resorts, and would probably never be put to use.

After mastering the art of magic and the means of disguising and defending himself, Dirk’s mission began in earnest. He adopted the identity of a young student who was studying the history of local commerce, and this gave him access to libraries of old trade route manifests, estate records, and all manner of business agreements and transaction receipts. He followed the sparse breadcrumbs of information across the entire continent, knowing that the dracolich had probably abandoned the identity of the merchant lord, but Dirk’s obsessive search eventually paid off, and after several hundred years of chasing all possible leads to exhaustion, he crossed the ocean and found himself in the vast Kingdom of Skaia, where he knew that in the holy capital city of Prospit, sitting amongst the ruling council in the position of Lord Chief Justice, was his family’s murderer.


	2. Chapter 2

Five hundred years had passed since the murder of the royal family of Derse. The kingdom was now a footnote in the history books of Skaia, and was known only to those who studied foreign lands, or to those for whom that history had been passed down through the generations. Dirk arrived in Skaia to find his family’s murderer, and at long last, his search had ended.

The holy city of Prospit was a shining bastion of civilization. Its formidable outer walls were bordered on all sides by acres of idyllic farmland, lush orchards, and sprawling fields of vegetables and grain. This was a land that had known only peace and prosperity, and thanks to his studies as king-to-be, Dirk was familiar with the kingdom’s reputation as a harmonious melting pot of religious institutions and prestigious colleges of knowledge and academia. Over the centuries, Prospit had become a seat of power for high-ranking worshipers of the virtuous gods of law and order. Because of this, Dirk was putting himself in danger just by entering its walls. He’d perfected his disguise long ago, but his abilities were nothing compared to the combined power of an entire sacred city.

But he wanted to see the face of his family’s murderer, and beheld the man from a crowd of onlookers as a formal address was given in the city square. The dracolich’s human disguise hadn’t changed since Dirk last saw him, but was now adorned in billowing robes of green and gold, looking down upon the crowd beneath him with pompous, regal satisfaction. Dirk stayed hidden and kept his face covered, knowing that the consequences would be disastrous if he were recognized. There was a poignant irony in the location and identity the dracolich had chosen - a ruling judge in a holy city, even bearing the same family name as before, as Dirk learned from making small talk in one of the city’s taverns. He must have passed the name down to himself by feigning death and inheritance with every false generation of heirs, just as Dirk’s research had suggested.

Now there was only the question of how to put his plans for revenge into motion. The dracolich had seated himself in a dangerous position, but was also virtually untouchable as a result. Dirk wanted to avenge his family, but getting close to Lord English was going to be hard enough, much less defeating him in a fight, and thus the dracolich’s phylactery needed to be found and destroyed. It could be anywhere, in any form, but Dirk figured that someone as powerful and vain as an immortal dragon probably kept it hidden amongst their other treasures, and Lord English boasted a sprawling mansion in the city’s wealthy central district. Even if he was wrong and the phylactery was hidden elsewhere, it was still the most logical place to start.

Dirk began his preparations in a nearby village, only a day’s ride from the outskirts of Prospit. His plan was to find and destroy Lord English’s phylactery, but this would likely involve an encounter with the abomination himself, and Dirk couldn’t afford to assume it wouldn’t end in a fight. Thus, he went to work crafting a spell that would be his secret weapon. It might take years of preparation, but this was nothing compared to the centuries he’d already invested in his quest for revenge, and this quiet, unassuming little village was the perfect place to start. 

First, he established himself using his favored identity as a young traveling scholar and rented a room at the local inn. He’d chosen this village in particular for the large graveyard that sat on the outskirts near an old, abandoned chapel. The gravekeeper was a farmer who lived on the other side of the village, and thus Dirk would be undisturbed as he spent his nights sneaking out of the inn and into the crypt beneath the chapel. He didn’t need to use the dead villagers’ remains for his work, but the narrow tunnels and dark stone corridors were the perfect place to experiment with creating and destroying undead entities, namely the rats and mice that were so plentiful in this farming community. There were multiple components to the spell he wanted to craft, and Dirk began with the disruption and undoing of necromantic energy. 

The weeks turned into months, and Dirk settled into a comfortable routine. He spent his days sitting in the common room of the inn, wearing his magical disguise and keeping up the appearance of an introverted young student who favored his books and notes over conversation with other travelers. He was able to make progress with the spell on paper while pretending to study some obscure academic subject, thus making sure his time wasn’t completely wasted. At night, he used the solitude of the underground crypt to make hands-on progress, raising undead rodents and magically picking them apart to find the exact resonance that would be the foundation of his new spell. He claimed a part of the crypt that ended in a large chamber lined with alcoves that were filled with offerings for the dead. Dirk cleared them out to make room for his experiments, and progress on the spell was slow as he returned to the inn before sunrise every morning, but he’d largely completed his work by the time he was attacked.

It was a night like any other - clear skies and a waxing moon, the village quiet and peaceful as it slept. Dirk was in the final stages of developing the anti-undead component of his spell, and was now in the process of replicating his results to make sure he’d gotten everything right. He’d long ago made the decision not to booby-trap the crypt’s tunnels, as he didn’t want to harm anyone who might be exploring out of curiosity or perhaps visiting a dead ancestor. On that particular night, while sitting at one of the stone alcoves that served as his workbench and focusing on a delicate procedure involving the disassembled corpse of a rat, Dirk felt a sudden prickle of awareness that someone was watching him.

His back was to the tunnel leading out of the chamber, and he paused for a moment, then continued to move his hands, keeping up the appearance of focusing on his work. There was the slightest movement of air - an exhale or a whispered word, and an almost silent shuffle of fabric. Dirk feigned unawareness while listening carefully, and when the sudden hiss of a projectile came, he spun around and conjured an intangible shield, knocking the arrow away from its trajectory towards the back of his neck. A sudden burst of light erupted from the middle of the room, and a bolt of crackling purple energy slammed into the stone wall next to him, collapsing part of his workbench under a pile of rubble. Dirk squinted in the light and held his ground, as several figures emerged from the tunnel.

The first was a young female ranger with long, black hair in a loose braid and handmade leather armor. Dirk met her piercing green eyes as she notched another arrow and drew it back, its sharp point alight with enchanted fire and aimed directly at his throat. A large, white wolf crouched at her side, growling menacingly, its fangs bared. Another woman emerged behind her, this one with short, blond hair and embroidered black robes. In her hands she wielded a pair of sharpened wands that seemed to absorb the light and distort the air around them, identifying her as a warlock. A young fighter with shaggy black hair stepped forward next, holding a warhammer in both hands, his expression amused and eager. Then Dirk saw the fourth intruder - an armor-clad figure wielding a large claymore, with the symbol of a golden harp etched into the front of his breastplate. The paladin’s face was hidden beneath a silver helm, and Dirk took a few steps back as the intruders spread out into formation, blocking the tunnel behind them.

Dirk scowled at them, frustrated and deeply unhappy with the situation. He’d spent the better part of three months hiding and conducting his research here, but it was better to abandon his work and finish it elsewhere, rather than harm innocent people. Dirk began muttering the words that would teleport him to the surface and allow him to escape. The spell was almost complete when the warlock made a sudden gesture with one of her wands, causing the spell to collapse and dissipate. Dirk cursed under his breath as she wagged a finger back and forth, her painted black lips drawn up in a smirk. With his escape route cut off, Dirk faced the group of intruders and took in a deep breath, curling his fingers into claws and letting out a loud, violent shriek that had frightened away the occasional intruder in the past, mainly those who stumbled upon him by accident without knowing what they were getting into. He knew his undead visage was frightening, but these intruders held their ground, while the hammer-wielding fighter glanced at the paladin next to him with wide eyes.

“Holy shit, Dave. You were right,” the young man laughed, hoisting the warhammer with a grin. “Don't worry, I’ll light him up if he goes invisible.”

“Keep an eye out, John,” the ranger admonished without taking her eyes off of Dirk, but the fighter gave another snorting laugh.

“I am, there’s nothing else here! What kind of stupid lich doesn’t summon the undead?” 

Dirk, taken aback by the fighter’s mocking tone and the realization that these people knew exactly what they were getting into, muttered angrily under his breath and raised both hands, then brought them down with a powerful burst of necromantic energy that swirled into the air like smoke and seeped through the cracks in the stone walls. As the first reanimated skeleton broke through, the ranger threw a glare at the fighter, before swinging her bow around and sinking an arrow directly into the skeleton’s chattering skull, while the wolf leapt at another and dragged it to the floor. The fighter turned his hammer against the next skeleton to emerge, knocking its head from its shoulders in a single blow.

Half a dozen corpses had answered Dirk’s call, and he hoped it would be enough to distract these intruders and give him a chance to escape. The warlock’s attention on him hadn’t wavered, however, and the paladin suddenly lunged forward, bringing his sword down with a burst of golden sparks as it slammed into the stone alcove where Dirk had been standing a moment ago. He barely dodged the first attack, and stumbled backwards again as the paladin followed up with a sideways swing of his blade, catching the front of Dirk’s robes and slicing a shallow line into his chest. The sword flared with holy power, but the wound didn’t burn the way Dirk expected it to from his previous encounters with paladins. He tried once again to activate the teleportation spell, but the warlock made another twirling gesture with her wand, and he turned to snarl at her as the spell was blocked.

“He doesn’t have a weapon,” the paladin’s muffled voice observed as Dirk backed away, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

“I doubt he needs one,” the warlock retorted with a pleasant smile, while on the other side of the chamber, two more of his skeletons fell to the ranger and fighter. Dirk made one last attempt to invoke the teleportation spell and managed to create a shimmering portal in the stone wall next to him, but the paladin’s sword crashed into the middle of it before he was finished, and Dirk flinched away from the sudden explosion of sparks and fractured magic.

These intruders seemed intent on cornering him, and Dirk was running out of nonviolent options. He was about to conjure a cloud of poison gas (an extreme but surefire method of distraction), when there was a blur of motion to his side as the white wolf lunged, sinking its teeth into his arm. The last of his skeletons had apparently fallen, and as Dirk fought to keep from being dragged to the floor by the wolf’s strength, he could see the ranger notching another enchanted arrow, this one crackling with electricity and aimed directly at his head. The fighter moved to block the exit, and the warlock took the opportunity to begin casting an offensive spell, as purple energy gathered at the tips of her wands. The final straw was the paladin’s sword, lifting into position for a downwards swing. With nothing left to lose, Dirk tapped into his innate power and released a powerful shockwave of necrotic energy. 

The ranger’s arrow flew and hit the ceiling as she stumbled, while the warlock dropped her wands and the fighter lost his footing. The paladin was forced back with his sword raised to catch the blast, but the wolf refused to release Dirk’s arm, despite taking the brunt of the damage. Before the others could react, Dirk used his free hand to seize a handful of fur between the wolf’s ears and invoke one of his most powerful spells. He felt the animal resist his influence, but only for a moment, before its mind softened and yielded control. The wolf released his arm and turned around, facing the ranger who was still in the process of readying another arrow. She paused, meeting the wolf’s blank stare with a look of confusion.

“Bec…?”

Dirk pointed at her, and the wolf lunged. She fell backwards and caught its teeth with her bow, the wood splintering under its mindless, vicious attack. 

“Oh shit, Jade!” the fighter exclaimed, then turned pale as Dirk’s gaze settled on him. But the paladin had also recovered, and Dirk was forced to dodge the series of blows that came in retaliation for what he had done. The sword caught the edge of his robe and tore the fabric, but the paladin’s movements had grown predictable, and when the attack paused, Dirk took the cue to duck down as a bolt of purple energy slammed into the wall above him. He ignored the warlock and began to conjure another spell reserved for dire situations. The paladin raised his sword, probably anticipating another blast of energy, but Dirk instead aimed his fingers at the ceiling, letting loose a beam of magic that disintegrated the stones and triggered a dense avalanche of dirt and rubble. The cave-in wasn’t as large as he’d hoped, but the paladin was immediately buried, and that gave Dirk enough time to block the downward swing of the fighter’s hammer and retaliate with another powerful spell. He glared into the fighter’s eyes and hissed the incantation, and the young man fell to the ground like he’d taken a blade to the stomach, his eyes glazed over in pain as he dropped the hammer and wheezed for air.

The warlock was next. She shouted her friend’s name, then shot two more bolts of purple energy from her wands, followed by the beginnings of a summoning spell, but Dirk vindictively mimicked her gesture from earlier, ending the spell prematurely. He blocked one of the bolts and allowed the other to find its mark, ignoring the damage and advancing on the warlock until he was close enough to grab her by the throat. The ranger was still trying to fight off her wolf companion as it pinned her on the floor, her arms covered with bloody bite marks. Dirk gave the wolf a silent command to halt its attack for now, but keep its master on the floor by any means necessary. He returned his attention to the warlock, now gripping his sleeve with a defiant, poisonous glare. Dirk infused his touch with another of his innate abilities, the magic sinking into her skin and leaving behind a thin layer of frost. Her glare turned to horror as her muscles locked in paralysis, and Dirk pried his sleeve from her grip, before carefully lowering her to the floor.

“Rose!” the ranger cried out, reaching uselessly towards her companion, while the wolf stood over her and growled in warning, ready to attack if she tried to move. Dirk checked on the fighter next, still lying on the floor with his hammer just out of reach as he groaned in pain. The paladin was next, and Dirk was surprised to find him rising to his feet after digging himself free from the mound of dirt.

The paladin saw his defeated companions on the floor, his helm turning slowly as he judged the situation, before lifting his sword and pointing it at Dirk in a silent challenge. Dirk resisted the urge to lift an eyebrow and instead crossed his arms, waiting for the injured paladin to make a move. When he finally charged, Dirk countered his attack with an arcane thunderwave, concerned that the paladin might not survive a more powerful spell at this point. The man was knocked backwards, his armored body hitting the stone floor with a deafening crash.

Dirk watched, unamused, as the paladin struggled back to his feet. The paralyzed warlock was the only one not calling out to him, selflessly begging the paladin to flee and save himself, unaware that none of them were actually in danger. 

The paladin charged at him again, and Dirk sent him flying back with another thunderwave. This time he dug the point of his sword into the floor, using it for support as he got back to his feet. The cries of the paladin’s friends were growing louder and more desperate, and Dirk wanted to groan aloud in frustration.

The paladin rose to his feet again, wobbling slightly with the damage he’d taken. Dirk stared incredulously as the paladin lifted the sword and charged with a pained battle cry. Another thunderwave knocked him down, the sword flying from his grip and spinning away across the floor. 

Dirk watched in disbelief as the paladin, urged on by the voices of his friends, dragged himself up yet again and balled his gauntleted hands into fists, despite swaying dangerously on his feet. At this point, Dirk was impressed by his resolve in the face of what, to them, was a hopeless situation and certain death (or something worse, if Dirk had been so inclined). This time when the paladin charged, instead of another low-level thunderwave spell, Dirk released a second blast of necrotic power. With a deafening clang of metal on stone, the paladin fell hard on his back and stayed there. The ranger cried out and tried to move, but was stopped by the wolf’s renewed assault and forced to protect her face and neck from the animal’s teeth. The fighter saw this and began dragging himself across the floor to her aid, while only the warlock’s eyes moved, her body still frozen in paralysis.

Dirk ignored them and approached the downed paladin, concerned that he might have overdone it with that final attack. As he got closer, something small and round caught the light from the daylight spell still lingering in the middle of the chamber. It had slipped out of the paladin’s armor during the fight, and now rested under his neck on the stone floor, attached by a thin chain.

‘It can’t be,’ Dirk thought, staring down at the necklace in disbelief, but he’d known that symbol since childhood when it was passed down to him - an heirloom he’d thought lost when the castle fell with his family. Dirk often wondered what became of his phylactery, knowing that his continued existence was irrefutable proof that it was somewhere intact and safe for the time being. He now decided that the paladin or someone close to him had likely purchased it from a merchant who dealt in antiques, then recognized what it was and used it to track him down with the intention of undoing whatever nefarious work he’d accomplished before destroying him. There were holes in Dirk’s logic, but it was the only explanation he could think of.

Dirk knelt next to the paladin, who appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness. The ranger’s voice grew shrill and panicked as he reached for the young man’s neck, slipping his fingers between the helm and breastplate. He found and undid the clasp, and the paladin seemed to stir at his touch, reaching up with a weak, shaking hand as Dirk stood with the necklace. He ignored the man’s pathetic attempt to grab his robes as Dirk walked away and exited the chamber through the tunnel on foot, leaving the naive, misguided party of adventurers to deal with their own defeat. He released the wolf’s mind from his control as he exited the crypt, and knew that the warlock’s paralysis would wear off at any moment. 

Dirk conjured his disguise and made haste to the inn, packing his things and leaving his payment on the table downstairs with enough extra coin to cover the horse he’d kept at the inn’s stables. Instead of riding away and hiding in the sprawling farmland, he took the horse at a quick trot towards the walls of Prospit to begin the next phase of his plan. Dirk used the midnight journey to think about adding an anti-draconic component to his spell, how to obtain the materials for such research, and any potential hiding places where he wouldn’t be discovered. He didn’t spare any thought for the paladin he’d left behind in the crypt. Regardless of how it happened, the return of Dirk’s phylactery was a stroke of good luck and nothing more, because the Strider lineage had ended over five-hundred years ago. He believed this to be true, and forcefully snuffed out the tiny flicker of hope that he was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

If Dirk had been five-hundred years younger, he might have postponed his plans after the fight in the crypt. It hadn’t been a particularly risky or difficult encounter on Dirk’s part, but word of his presence might soon reach Prospit’s other holy knights, and that would complicate matters considerably. He knew there were multiple factions of paladins within its walls as a result of the many gods worshipped by its populace, but there was also a unified Order and a seat on the ruling council for their most honored leader (a separate position from that of the Lord Chief Justice, fortunately). Drawing their attention could be disastrous, but Dirk was inclined to believe that the paladin from the crypt had been an outlier, because he'd recognized the golden harp on his breastplate as a symbol of Milil. 

Milil was a benevolent god of bards and poets. Once worshipped extensively in Derse and nearby prosperous kingdoms, he was still considered only a minor god of the arts and was nearly unheard of in other parts of the world. Among the many shrines in Dirk’s ancestral home, Milil’s had been decorated with ornate gold-plated carvings of leafy, fruit-bearing vines and dancing songbirds, and was always covered in offerings of precious gems and finely-crafted musical instruments. Paladins that swore an oath to such gods were rare to begin with, and Dirk was doubtful there would be others, much less an entire faction of them in Prospit. His attackers had been a small patchwork group of rogue spellcasters and melee fighters, and in that context, a paladin of an obscure god wasn’t very out of place.

The return of the pendant medallion was harder to explain. It was in surprisingly good condition after being lost for hundreds of years. A little tarnished and scuffed, perhaps, but otherwise undamaged. Dirk tried to wear it around his neck, but it felt wrong, like he was desecrating his own memory. The prince of Derse had died with his family, and he’d relinquished that identity to the past where it belonged. Like any other undead abomination, Dirk was unwelcome among the living at best, and he’d accepted this along with the loss of his humanity. Prospit happened to be a place where he was especially feared and reviled, but the risk to himself didn’t matter. Either he’d accomplish his task or he’d be destroyed with his phylactery and join his family in the afterlife. Its return meant little in the grand scheme of things, and he wasn't particularly motivated to hide his soul somewhere safe, so he kept the necklace in the pocket of his robes and decided not to think about it.

With his anti-undead research completed (somewhat prematurely, but the results had been good enough), Dirk turned his focus to the magical resonance of dragons. He wasn’t going to waste time hunting and killing one to harvest its parts, when the resources were already available to him in Prospit. The College of Alchemy was sure to have dragon parts in reserve with their other stockpiled ingredients. Such materials were rare and exceedingly dangerous to harvest, but immensely valuable for their inherent magical and alchemical properties, so Dirk made plans to steal them.

After fleeing the crypt and his attackers, Dirk rode to Prospit, sold his horse, and spent the following night exploring the sewer system beneath the city. Its stone tunnels were old but well-maintained, and the permeating odor of wet mold and filth didn’t bother him. His eyes worked perfectly in the darkness, and unlike the village crypt, this network of tunnels offered a multitude of different escape routes. It would be the perfect place to continue his work.

Dirk found the cistern beneath the College of Alchemy and spent the next few days converting it into a hidden workshop. There was no shortage of scrap wood and discarded (or unattended) equipment and tools from the surface. Whatever he couldn’t build himself, he took from the college’s storerooms and laboratories, which were easily infiltrated from below and relatively unguarded at night. Dirk’s hideout became a cluttered patchwork of workbenches and tables where he spread the various stages of his research around the cistern chamber in bubbling flasks and complex distillation sets. The muffled sound of voices and rolling cart wheels on the cobblestone streets above were the only thing to mark the passage of time from one day to the next.

With everything ready, Dirk went to work gradually stealing the college’s stockpiled dragon parts for alchemical recipes as he made progress on his own research below. Green dragon parts were especially vital to his work, since the magical resonance between each species was slightly different, and he took special care to hoard the scales and teeth and bits of flesh and blood in vials when he found them. Understanding the resonance of green dragons was relatively simple, compared to the extreme difficulty of counteracting it and combining the resulting magical pattern with the anti-undeath foundation of his spell, and it took a combination of alchemical equipment with complex patterns of magical runes and sigils to achieve the results he needed. Weeks turned into months, and without the need to keep up appearances during the day, Dirk threw himself completely into his work.

The cistern and its connecting sewer tunnels were especially quiet at night. Dirk had made good progress on his spell, but was still far from the results he needed, when the distant sound of sloshing water interrupted his work. It echoed from one of the tunnels, subtle and hesitant, like someone was trying and failing to walk quietly through the water. Dirk cursed under his breath, doused the lit burner he'd been using, and abandoned his workbench to hide behind one of the stone pillars that supported the ceiling, hoping it was just some homeless vagrant who’d wandered into the tunnels and not a more problematic intruder.

There were no lanterns or candles in Dirk’s lair, so when a faint glow appeared from one of the tunnels, it poured over the organized chaos of his workspace and threw bizarre, jagged shadows onto the walls. It was steady and colorless like daytime, rather than the yellow flicker of a lit torch, which meant the intruder was using a spell to light their way, and Dirk quickly cast invisibility on himself before the sloshing footsteps entered the cistern chamber.

The intruder paused at the mouth of the tunnel, shadows leaning across the walls as the light source waved from side to side. Dirk waited in silence as the intruder began to move again, and soon the light source entered his field of view - the tip of a glowing sword, followed by the armored gauntlet of its wielder, and Dirk hissed under his breath as the paladin from the crypt appeared, moving slow and cautious through the chamber. His armored helm turned as he investigated, carefully examining the strange equipment on the workbenches and paying special attention to the still-bubbling distillation apparatus that Dirk had been using moments before. The paladin’s companions were nowhere to be seen, and Dirk wondered if he had come alone this time, perhaps to investigate the string of robberies at the College of Alchemy.

Whatever the reason, Dirk was loathe to abandon his research and flee like he had at the crypt. There wasn’t another source of dragon parts like this within the entire Kingdom of Skaia, and he refused to travel away and lose sight of the dracolich after he’d spent so many centuries tracking it down. The vow he’d made five-hundred years ago to spare the innocent was a distant memory as the paladin, who’d driven him away from his work once already, lifted a single green scale between his gauntleted fingers to examine it. He seemed confused and curious despite the blank mask of his helm, but his posture was still tense and guarded, rightfully expecting an ambush.

Delicate glassware clinked together as the paladin rifled through a small rack of tubes before carefully prying open the lid on a box of spare equipment. Dirk already knew the solution to the problem in front of him, though it would perhaps add to the burden of his guilt, but there was too much at stake for him to abandon his work this time. He felt akin to the predatory spiders and mantids in the courtyard garden of his childhood as the paladin circled around and moved beyond the stone pillar where Dirk waited, invisible and silent. The paladin’s armored back was now exposed, and Dirk prepared to gesture and whisper the incantation of a powerful necrotic blight spell, when the paladin’s head turned and the helm’s black slit pointed directly at where he stood.

Dirk wasn't sure if the paladin had actually seen through his invisibility or sensed his presence, but he didn't risk waiting to find out. He released the blight spell, and without hesitation the paladin lifted his glowing sword and cut through the wave of necrotic magic, then charged forward and swung the blade at Dirk’s head, tossing the shadows against the walls into a wild frenzy. The sound of metal on stone was deafening as Dirk ducked under the blow and moved away from the pillar, now with a chunk of stone missing at shoulder-height. The paladin was apparently unfazed by Dirk’s reappearance since their last encounter, and Dirk was forced to retreat backwards as the paladin pursued him with a flurry of aggressive swings. Caught off-guard by the ferocity of the attack, Dirk started to wonder if this was even the same paladin from the crypt, until he spoke.

“Give it back!” the young man shouted through his helm, before cleaving one of Dirk’s workbenches in half as he evaded the paladin’s blade, the crash of wood and glass echoing through the tunnels. There was only one explanation for what the paladin wanted, but Dirk would sooner abandon his research than surrender his phylactery. He ignored the damage to his work and reached for two of his most powerful spells - a bolt of disintegration, followed by the domination spell he'd used on the ranger’s wolf. 

The disintegration bolt hit a stack of boxes near the paladin’s leg, instantly shattering them as though the wood had met with a silent explosion. The bolt had missed its mark, but the paladin was momentarily distracted, and Dirk followed up with his domination spell. He tried to seize control of the paladin’s mind, and during the ensuing struggle, he discovered an overwhelming wave of anger where he'd expected fear, and was forced to dodge another downward swing as his spell failed and the paladin retaliated.

After failing to hit Dirk again, the paladin lowered his sword and cast a blinding burst of daylight from his fingertips, then lunged as Dirk reeled backwards. Dirk retaliated with his own spell, allowing the sword to tear a line through the sleeve of his robe as he unleashed the same magic he’d used to temporarily cripple the black-haired fighter. The paladin stumbled and gasped in pain, nearly dropping to his knees in the water, but before Dirk could finish him off with another spell, the paladin sensed his intentions and swung up wildly with his blade. Dirk nearly lost the fingers on one hand as he reared back, hitting one of the workbenches and dropping to the side as another sweep of the paladin’s blade shattered the table’s equipment. Dirk was mindful of what little remained of his research, but his thoughts were now turning to self-preservation as the paladin shook off the damage from the spell and renewed his assault with even more ferocity than before. All this over an old necklace? Dirk tried not to let the incredulity show on his face as he dodged another blow and tried to draw the paladin away from the few remaining intact workbenches.

“Return what you stole,” the paladin growled through his metal helm. “Where is it?” His sword flared bright with holy energy, and Dirk eyed it dubiously as he kept both hands raised in front of him, prepared to magically defend himself and unable to think of anything to say that would improve the situation. He wasn’t interested in justifying himself to yet another violent do-gooder. He’d tried that once, the first time he’d been attacked, and it hadn’t changed the outcome. Now Dirk had used up his most powerful spells, except for the one he always saved as a last resort. It wouldn't work on a strong warrior with full vitality, but the paladin’s sword was trembling slightly - not from fear, as Dirk already knew, but from pain and exhaustion. He couldn’t afford to spare the paladin like he had before. The killing spell would have to do.

Dirk was prepared to dodge the next attack and speak the incantation that would snuff out the paladin’s life. He wasn’t expecting the blade to drop, and this time when the paladin charged, his armored shoulder slammed into Dirk’s chest and pinned him hard against the wall. The impact would have crushed the air from his lungs if Dirk had been alive. His magical abilities were unparalleled, but his physical strength was average at best since he’d abandoned the combat training of his distant youth. Dirk pushed back against the paladin’s body, indignant and offended at being pinned, and was caught off-guard when the paladin took a sudden step back and raised his sword, still glowing bright with holy power, and plunged it into Dirk’s chest.

The blade struck true and skewered Dirk’s heart, puncturing his robes and dessicated flesh, and stopping only when the pointed tip wedged itself deep into a crack in the stone wall behind him. The paladin’s gauntlets tightened around the hilt as Dirk let out a ragged cry of pain, his voice cracking into a wheeze as he tried to struggle and felt the steel blade anchored in his chest. Though not nearly enough to kill him, the pain made him gasp and choke in shock, and yet, the white-hot burn of holy power against his undead flesh never came. There was only the (slightly lesser) pain of being impaled, and Dirk tried unsuccessfully to push the paladin off, but was met with renewed force as the young man threw his weight against the blade, changing the angle and bringing them closer together.

“Give it back,” the paladin spoke haltingly through gritted teeth, fighting to keep his grip on the sword’s hilt as they struggled against each other. Dirk attributed the shake in the paladin’s voice to exhaustion at first, but now the unsteady tremor had more in common with grief, and this might have caught Dirk’s interest if he hadn't been nailed to the wall. Instead, Dirk bared his teeth into a snarl, their faces less than a foot apart, and then remembered the killing incantation. He would take pleasure in neutralizing this particular threat to his work, even if most of the damage had already been done, but a new mindless zombie servant would make the clean-up and rebuilding process much easier. He prepared to cast his lethal spell as the paladin spoke again, his voice unexpectedly small and pleading. “Please . . . it's all I have left of my family.”

Dirk’s anger drained from him like water leaking from a barrel. The words might as well have been physical blows, and the paladin noticed the sudden change in his demeanor as they both fell quiet. 

‘That’s impossible,’ Dirk thought, unable to reconcile the concept. ‘They all died. The kingdom was annexed. There was no one left to take the throne.’ But even as he thought this, the light from the paladin’s sword caught the slit in his helm, and for the first time Dirk could see his adversary’s eyes - blood red and framed with pure white eyelashes - the albinism that ran in his family. The Strider lineage had been known for this trait (which had skipped Dirk, but his own father and several cousins had been affected). ‘How can this be? All this time . . . all these centuries . . .’

The paladin’s confusion grew as Dirk stared at him in abject, silent disbelief. The sword in his chest still hurt, and he could feel the black ichor that was his lifeless blood starting to rise in his throat and leak from his mouth, but he knew what needed to be done. Slowly, Dirk let go of the sword’s blade and let his head fall back to rest against the stone wall. Then he slowly reached with one hand for the pocket on the inside of his robe. The paladin’s eyes followed the motion, and his hands tightened on the sword’s hilt in warning. Dirk clenched his jaw in pain, waiting for the paladin’s nervous grip to relax, before he resumed carefully reaching into his robes. His fingers found the thin, delicate chain, and slowly pulled it from his pocket. The paladin’s eyes widened as Dirk held the pendant between them, dangling and spinning on its chain from his shriveled fingers.

There was a long pause before the paladin started reaching for the necklace, hesitating more than once as his gauntleted hand got close, probably expecting a deadly trap to spring the moment he touched it. The cistern was quiet apart from the dripping water, Dirk’s occasional pained sounds, and the paladin’s labored breathing. It took almost a full minute for the paladin to finally grab the chain. He held it and stared at it with the unreadable mask of his helm, then closed his hand around the necklace and spent a long moment silently interrogating Dirk with the stare of his metal visor.

Suddenly, the paladin took a step back and wrenched the sword out of the wall, sliding the blade out of Dirk’s chest in one smooth motion. Dirk almost fell to his knees, but managed to catch himself and keep his footing as he clutched at the wound through his robe, trying to staunch the black ooze of blood. It wasn’t as serious as it looked, thanks to the apparent weakness and ineffectiveness of the paladin’s holy power, but the pain was terrible, and the injury would take weeks to heal completely. The paladin backed away as Dirk leaned heavily against the stone wall for support, and the two of them entered a long, tense stalemate.

Dirk’s research lay around them in ruins, but it was the last thing on his mind as he met the paladin’s stare. Despite his immortality and mastery of the necromantic arts, Dirk felt paralyzed. ‘I almost killed him. Gods help me, I almost finished what the dracolich started.’ Dirk’s shock gave way to anger as he thought about how idiotic the young man’s actions had been. Not just here, but in the crypt as well. ‘They knew exactly what I was. Why did they challenge me? Even the strongest paladins know better than to confront a lich in such small numbers.’ But there would be no explanation, because Dirk wasn’t going to ask questions or demand answers. He’d relinquished his place among the living hundreds of years ago, and even though it seemed his family hadn’t died out, Dirk told himself that he no longer counted as one of them. That identity had ended with his life as the Prince of Derse, and even though his phylactery was the only thing binding him to this mortal realm, the necklace wasn’t his to keep. ‘If I am to die truly,’ he thought, ‘then all the better if the killing blow comes from my own family’s hand. I’ll welcome their judgement for what I’ve become.’

But the paladin was apparently just as frozen, seemingly unsure if their battle would continue, or if Dirk’s surrender to his demands meant something else. His stance was still guarded and ready, but it was more defensive than threatening. ‘He really did come here just to retrieve the heirloom. How did he even find me?’ Dirk glared around at the destroyed tables and shattered glassware. He’d made progress, but not enough to complete the anti-draconic aspect of his spell, and if the paladin wasn’t going to finish what he’d started (and Dirk wasn’t about to reveal the necklace as his fatal weakness if the paladin wasn’t already aware), then he’d pick up the pieces and resume his work until he met either success or failure. The affairs of the living were no longer his concern. Clutching his chest and gritting his teeth against the pain, Dirk stood at his full height and narrowed his eyes at the paladin.

“Get out!” he shouted in the raspy gravel of his undead voice, gesturing angrily at one of the tunnel exits. It had the desired effect as the paladin flinched at the command, then hesitated, glancing from Dirk to the indicated tunnel where he’d snuck into the cistern. There was another long pause before the paladin finally obeyed, moving towards the tunnel in hesitant steps and keeping both eyes and his sword pointed at Dirk. ‘At least he has enough sense not to turn his back on me,’ Dirk thought with relief, even as he felt a pang of regret at letting the young man go without revealing their connection. ‘It’s better this way. I can’t let him get involved. I won’t risk it.’

Dirk glared at the paladin until the splash of his footfalls retreated into the tunnel and the holy glow of his sword went with him. ‘Good riddance,’ Dirk thought, before allowing himself to slump against the wall and take stock of the damage around him. Months of work reduced to this. Dirk wiped the black ichor from his mouth, then stumbled to his feet and began quickly gathering the remains of his work, retrieving the intact vials, equipment, and samples of dragon parts and packing them into a large satchel. He abandoned the cistern before sunrise, fearing that the paladin would return with reinforcements, and cast his disguise before leaving the sewers and escaping the city. Dirk ventured into the surrounding farmland on foot until he found a small abandoned homestead, its roof crumbling, windows broken, and the nearby field overgrown with wild grass and weeds. The furniture inside was old and rotting, but otherwise functional. There he would spend the next few months healing from his injuries and finishing the anti-draconic component of his spell.

The work was exponentially slower than before, thanks to the destruction of his best equipment, but progress at a snail’s pace was better than none at all, and Dirk’s thoughts often turned to the paladin during the monotonous work. He wished in retrospect that he’d asked for a name, and wondered how long ago his surviving family had immigrated to Prospit. Dirk’s plans for revenge hadn’t changed, but he felt the knowledge of his family’s existence chase away the lingering shadows of grief in his mind like sunlight following a storm. Even if the paladin was his only surviving relative, it was still a miracle that Dirk hadn’t dared hope for and a peaceful balm on the nihilism that had driven him this far.

There was only one component remaining to his spell, and it would take him back into the heart of Prospit. He knew this next endeavor would be the most dangerous part of his research yet, but he was prepared to do whatever it took to finish this, and if the gods allowed it, he would soon bring the dracolich to justice.


	4. Chapter 4

“Dirk, be a dear and finish packing up the back room, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The old woman smiled as Dirk moved around the room, abandoning the clean linens and rags he’d been folding to slide an empty crate out from beneath one of the dusty old cabinets. 

“I hired someone to help with the furniture tomorrow morning, so if you could finish clearing out the shelves before we close up today, that would be just perfect.”

Dirk hummed affirmatively and took a deep breath, then blew out the fine layer of dirt at the bottom of the crate. He coughed a few times for good measure, remembering to keep up a steady rhythm of inhales and exhales while Mrs. Egbert was around. The old woman was sitting at one of the tables by the front window, taking down the bundles of dried herbs and separating the leaves from the stems. Her kind voice wavered with age as she spoke. “We might have one more patient today, if he makes it before closing time,” she said, her gnarled fingers carefully picking the herbs and placing them into a mortar for grinding.

Dirk lifted the crate and carried it to the storage room in the back, partitioned from the main room by a thick curtain hanging over the open door frame. The room was still cramped with shelves and boxes despite the several days he’d already spent organizing and moving things into the cellar for storage. Mrs. Egbert wanted this room converted into an inpatient bedroom, and Dirk had transferred the old paper records and raw potion ingredients downstairs. Now he just needed to pack up the jars with their faded labels and wait for the extra furniture to be moved out before he could get to work cleaning the floor and making the room presentable. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d gone knocking on her door three days ago to ask for an apprenticeship. 

Mrs. Egbert was apparently the best healer in all of Prospit, and was highly regarded as a master practitioner of white magic. This was all according to the information he’d gathered before starting his work on the third and final component of his spell - white magic, divine power, and the antithesis of negative energy. Her clinic was a small, cottage-like building near the center of the city’s market district, its thatched roof and stone brick walls setting it apart from the shops and merchant stands that lined the wide cobblestone streets. It was the heart of enemy territory, nearby and second only to the main central district where the city square and sacred temples were located. Many months had passed since the fight in the cistern, and Dirk’s living disguise was flawless, but every day and night he spent here was a calculated risk.

Mrs. Egbert herself was kind and generous, a surprisingly pleasant companion, and the most patient teacher Dirk had ever known. It would all come crashing down the moment she found out about his undead nature, but that moment would hopefully never come, because he genuinely liked the old woman. She put money aside for him despite his refusal to accept any compensation, and allowed him to “sleep” on the cot in the back room while she retired at night to a home she shared elsewhere in the city with her family. 

Dirk had spent those last few nights studying reference books and attempting to practice the spells she tried to teach him. He didn’t need to pretend to struggle with white magic, because he couldn’t even cast a basic cantrip. He’d planned on using it for the final component of his spell and knew it would be difficult (if not impossible) due to his undead nature, but he felt like a toddler trying to learn advanced arithmetic. It was just as well that the old woman was kind and patient, because Dirk wasn’t good for much else at the moment besides keeping the place clean and moving old supplies into the cellar.

Now, at the end of his third day living in Prospit under the guise of a healer’s apprentice, Dirk occupied himself with packing jars into a wooden crate and didn’t pay attention when the bell above the door jingled and a male voice joined Mrs. Egbert’s in the front room. The tone of their conversation was warm and friendly, and Dirk tuned them out as he worked, carefully arranging the jars so they wouldn’t topple over and roll around. When the crate was full, he lifted it in both arms and pushed through the curtain, and barely managed to keep it from slipping out of his grasp and shattering its contents on the floor when he saw the young man sitting on the examination table.

Dirk didn’t need to see his face. The milk-white hair and alabaster skin were enough, but instead of his armor, the paladin was wearing a plain cotton shirt and pants with a braided leather belt. He hadn’t noticed Dirk yet, still in mid-laughter at something Mrs. Egbert had said, and the old woman saw Dirk standing in the doorway and gestured at him.

“Dave, this is my new apprentice, Dirk. He’s been a such a sweetheart helping me with things around the clinic.” 

The paladin - Dave, turned around, his expression open and friendly at first, but his smile fell as their eyes met. Dirk noted a few things in quick succession. First, that his living relative’s name was very similar to his father’s (probably a coincidence), second, that he looked to be around the same age that Dirk had been when he died, and third, that Dave didn’t seem to recognize him immediately, although his expression grew more confused as the seconds passed. The phylactery was with him too, judging from the thin silver chain around his neck, the pendant itself hidden under his shirt. Dirk mentally shook himself out of his stupor and mumbled a quick greeting, before carrying the crate towards the door.

“Dirk, you’ll want to stick around for this.” Mrs. Egbert’s gentle old voice was like a dagger in his back. “Dave has a very advanced condition that requires treatment every week. I know it’s a little beyond what you’re learning right now, but observation is always a good place to start.”

Dirk resisted the urge to sigh in defeat, and placed the heavy crate on the table near the door. He’d been hoping to slip away and avoid the situation entirely, but Mrs. Egbert’s words had given him pause, and the curiosity and concern was eating away at his sense of self-preservation. ‘Advanced condition?’ Was his living relative in poor health? Dirk could have ignored them and slipped away, but he couldn't leave without knowing for sure.

Dirk turned to face the old woman, wearing his most neutral expression and lacing a subtle but powerful suggestion spell into his voice.

“Mrs. Egbert, it’s been a long day. Why don’t you go home early? I’ll take care of Dave and close up the clinic when I’m finished.”

“Oh . . . yes, of course.” She nodded like he’d suggested something perfectly reasonable. Dave turned to her in confusion, but Dirk was already ushering her towards the door. “Don’t forget to put out the lights before you leave.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a good evening.”

With that, he watched the old woman hobble out the door and down the street. He closed the door and kept his hand on the latch, narrowing his eyes and bowing his head in a long moment of silent frustration. The paladin said nothing, and the tension in the air grew as Dirk flicked the latch to lock the door.

When he turned around to stare down his guest, Dirk found he couldn't keep the scowl from his face as he regarded his living relative, the twice-over thorn in his side and impediment to his work. Dave’s eyes widened, and suddenly he was scrambling backwards, flinging himself from the examination table and crashing into the shelf behind him in a desperate reflex to get away. He’d recognized Dirk in spite of his living disguise, and was now at risk of pulling down the shelves in his panic, with their fragile jars and carefully preserved ingredients. Dirk threw out a hand and shouted at him to stop, fearing the destruction of Mrs. Egbert’s clinic, but Dave had already grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace and was holding it in a defensive stance like a sword, his hands shaking.

“Stop it! Before you break something,” Dirk hissed. Fortunately the damage so far had been minimal, but this was the last place he wanted a repeat of their fight in the cistern. Dave’s red eyes darted around wildly, looking for an escape route. The examination table was between them and Dirk was still blocking the door, but the windows soon caught his attention, and Dirk did not want to deal with shattered windows. He lifted his hands in a way that he hoped was more placating than threatening. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

“What are you doing here?” Dave’s voice trembled only slightly as he wielded the poker like a knight protector, but the effect was nulled by his civilian clothing.

“I should ask you that,” Dirk shot back. “How many more times are you going to interrupt my work?”

“What?” The poker wavered as Dave thought about the implications in a moment of horror, before his grip on the improvised weapon tightened. “What have you done to Nanna Egbert?!”

Dirk crossed his arms and glared at him. “The old woman is fine. I haven't done anything to her.” He thought for a moment. “Besides cast a few harmless suggestion spells.”

“Liar,” Dave accused, and his voice reminded Dirk of their fight in the cistern. “Why are you here?!”

“You first.”

“Wh- . . . because I'm her patient?” Dave answered sarcastically, his fear yielding to confusion.

“The old woman said you have a condition. What is it?”

“That’s . . . none of your business,” Dave tone had suddenly gone soft, but he still held the iron poker between them like a weapon. 

“Let’s make a deal.” Dirk offered what he considered to be generous terms. “I’ll answer your question, and then you answer mine. You want to know why I’m here?”

Dave eyed him apprehensively, then nodded. Dirk had no intention of revealing their familial connection or his true goal here in Prospit, but the paladin had asked why he was “here” in the clinic, and the answer was harmless enough to barter away in return for cooperation.

“I want to learn white magic,” Dirk answered truthfully, and Dave scoffed. “The old woman Egbert is supposed to be the best practitioner in Skaia, and I needed a teacher. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re such a liar. Why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Dirk retorted. “Now it’s your turn, Paladin of Milil. Why are you here?”

A moment of surprise passed over Dave’s face at the acknowledgement of his obscure patron deity. Dirk waited with his arms crossed, secretly pleased that Dave’s defensive stance had wavered more and more with each exchange of words.

“I . . .” he started, reluctant to engage in conversation. “I come here every week . . . for treatment.”

“What kind of treatment?”

“Why do _you_ care?” The aggression in Dave’s voice had bled out, and now he frowned, confused at the interrogation. Dirk’s gaze flicked down as Dave’s free hand subconsciously clutched at his chest through his shirt. Ah.

“Is it an injury?”

“No . . . not really. It’s . . .” Dave let out a long, uncomfortable breath. “It’s a curse. Nanna Egbert helps with the pain and slows it down, but it’s incurable.”

“Incurable?” Dirk repeated, incredulous. “In the holy city of Prospit, the sacred religious capital of Skaia, there isn’t a single priest or healer who can cure you?”

“They already tried. Nothing works. Nanna Egbert says I’ve got . . . maybe a few years left, before it . . .” Dave trailed off, then glared at Dirk. “I answered your questions, now either fight me or let me leave!”

‘He’s dying.’ The thought settled on Dirk’s mind like a winter’s chill. Suddenly the paladin’s reckless behavior made sense, in the context of a young man who knew his time was limited, and if what Dave had implied about their family was true, then it would be the end of the Strider bloodline. Dirk had already believed this to be true for centuries and wasn't too concerned about the prospect, but Dave himself was another matter. In that regard, Dirk was very concerned. It seemed ludicrous to him that Prospit’s best healers could do nothing to help. His curiosity was piqued, but most of all, he wasn't going to accept his relative’s death sentence without doing something about it.

“Sit on the table and take off your shirt,” Dirk commanded like a professional healer, as he went to pull the curtains shut for privacy. Dave made an indignant sound.

“What? No way in hell!” He raised the iron poker again in a weak display of self-defence. “I'm not letting you touch me!”

Dirk sighed, unsurprised by Dave’s (very reasonable) objections. “You said yourself that no healer or cleric can help you, so you might as well let someone else try with a . . . different skill set. Besides,” he ventured, trying to make the idea sound as reasonable as possible, “you're already dying. You’ve got nothing else to lose.”

“There are plenty of things worse than death,” Dave countered in a growl, obviously referencing Dirk’s nature and the unholy things he was capable of. Dirk rolled his eyes.

“If I wanted to hurt you, you'd already be dead or worse.” He drew the last set of curtains and turned to face the reluctant paladin. “Now sit down and take off your shirt so I can do my job.”

Dave made no immediate move to comply. His mistrust was perfectly justified, and while Dirk’s true motives were good, they were also layered with excuses, and he knew how it must seem - the lich asking the paladin to offer himself up, defenseless. If he were in Dave’s position, he wouldn't go through with it either, but as Dirk thought about the hypothetical role-reversal, the iron poker slowly lowered until it hung at Dave’s side. His expression had shifted from fearfully suspicious to confused and difficult to place, like he was examining Dirk carefully and the results weren't adding up.

“It'll be good practice,” Dirk added belatedly, trying not to phrase it like a question. The statement was the truth - not in the sense that he’d be putting his nonexistent skills in white magic to use, but during his centuries of travel and study, he'd learned the necessary techniques to deal with curses and other demonic maladies, and if a cleric’s touch couldn't help, then maybe a necromancer’s would.

Dave seemed to make up his mind during the long pause that followed. He surrendered the poker to the table by the shelf he'd almost destroyed and let out a long, nervous breath.

“This is such a bad idea,” he muttered. “I can't believe I'm doing this. Rose and Jade are gonna kill me . . .” 

Dirk couldn't help a small smile of victory as Dave started unlacing the front of his cotton shirt, his fingers clumsy and nervous. When he got halfway down, Dirk’s eyes were drawn for a moment to the familiar pendant medallion hanging from his neck.

Dave pulled off his shirt and sat on the edge of the examination table like he was bracing for an attack. He leaned away as Dirk approached, fighting his survival instincts, but held still as Dirk began visually inspecting the sprawling greenish black mark on Dave’s chest.

There was no doubt that its origins were demonic. The skin around the mark looked bruised and sick, especially against the stark white canvas of his complexion. It fanned out like a web across his chest, and the blood vessels in the affected area looked almost drawn on with ink. A small, thin wound like a shallow knick from a sharp blade or claw was in the middle of Dave’s chest, and appeared to be the source of the spreading demonic infection.

“How long have you had this?” Dirk asked, reaching out to brush his fingers against the mark. Dave tensed up as Dirk’s hand approached and flinched when it made contact with his skin, before letting out the anxious breath he’d been holding.

“A few years,” he muttered, his muscles twitching every time Dirk’s hand moved.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not since I started seeing Nanna Egbert every week.” 

“What kind of demon was it?” Dirk asked, tracing his fingers down Dave’s sternum and gathering as much information on the curse as he could by probing it with his magic. He could feel the demonic taint now - vile and spiritually corrosive as it ate away at Dave’s life force, but he could also sense the warm, palliative barrier of the old woman’s magic, blocking the pain and reducing the drain on Dave’s soul and body into a trickle. What should have killed him in a matter of weeks had been delayed by years, and Dirk silently thanked the old woman.

“I dunno, some dog-headed asshole with wings. We didn't even fight him on purpose. It was supposed to just be a quick job to clear out some aggressive wildlife. We beat him, but he . . . left his mark, I guess. If I don’t see Nanna Egbert at least once a week, everything just hurts and feels like shit, so . . . here I am.”

Dave’s nervous rambling was disrupting the impression in Dirk’s mind of the stoic, tenacious paladin. Now he could see Dave for what he really was - young, cautious, altruistic somehow despite the bleeding hourglass of his mortality, and so very much like the relatives he’d known in life that the resemblance was starting to hurt. Dirk would never forgive himself if he couldn't save him. He turned away and went to one of the shelves laden with medicinal supplies. “Lie down on your back.”

“What, why?” Dave asked quickly.

“So I can do my job,” Dirk answered without looking over his shoulder. He was busy searching the bottled ingredients on the shelves for anything that might synchronize with his magic and the particular type of spell he had in mind. Most of it was useless, in the sense that it was only useful to conventional healers and practitioners of white magic, but eventually a single vial of powdered bone caught his eye, and he uncorked it and emptied it into a small wooden bowl. Dave, still sitting up, watched him go to the fireplace and take a fistfull of ashes before sprinkling it into the bowl and stirring the ingredients together with his fingers. He stared at Dave and repeated the command. “Lie down.”

After another long moment of hesitation, Dave turned and stretched his legs out across the examination table. The pendant medallion slipped over his shoulder and fell by his neck as he lowered himself to lie flat on his back, staring up at Dirk with trepidation. It was . . . an appealing sight. Dave had the physique of a swordsman, and combined with the albinism, it gave his body a rare, marble-sculpted quality. Dirk acknowledged that thought, examined it like a strange jewel in his mind’s eye, then put it aside. He would question it later when he wasn’t in the middle of something this important.

“Hold still.” Dirk scooped his finger through the powdered mixture and began drawing a complex pattern of runes on top of the demonic mark. He might not be a practitioner of the healing arts, but Dirk was a master of his own arts, and had just spent the last part of the year deconstructing and counteracting specific magical signatures. Now that he’d analyzed the demonic mark, he attempted to weave together an improvised countercurse that would fit Dave’s specific ailment like a lock and key.

“That . . . doesn’t look like healing magic. What is that? What are you doing?” Dave’s eyes crossed as he tried to follow the patterns Dirk was tracing on his chest. Dirk ignored him and finished the preparations, then set the bowl aside and drew a short, thin dagger from the inside of his robe. By now he should have expected Dave to jerk away and nearly fall from the table.

“Calm down!” Dirk snapped at him. “It’s not for you.”

“Seriously?!” Dave had risen onto his elbows and was leaning as far away from Dirk as possible. “You told me to lie down and then pulled out a dagger. What the hell else am I supposed to think?”

“Do you want my help or not?” Dirk growled. “Hold still. I won't ask again.”

Dave swallowed and nervously eyed the blade. Fortunately he hadn’t smeared any of the runes, and the panic in his eyes faded as he watched Dirk draw the blade across his own palm. 

Dirk hissed at the pain and cupped his hand, watching the black ichor leak out into a handful of viscous ink (and there too, in the sunlight from the windows, the tiny glittering flecks of gold drifted like distant stars in his blood). He discarded the dagger and glared at Dave until the paladin wordlessly shifted back into position, body tense and fists clenched at his sides. His eyes followed Dirk’s hand as it reached out, the black-bloodied palm coming to rest in the center of the runes and the demonic mark on his chest.

Nothing happened at first. Dirk spread his fingers out and concentrated, while the paladin took quick, nervous breaths. The dusty gray patterns began to shimmer as Dirk’s magic flowed into the runes, and from there, into Dave’s body. The paladin's eyes went wide at the sensation.

Using the runes as a conduit, Dirk anchored himself and cast his black-gold magic around the demonic taint like a fishing net. It had worked itself deep into the paladin’s body, sinking into his soul over the years and decaying everything it touched. The physical mark was only a side effect, and Dirk now knew why the healers and clerics had failed. This was a curse inflicted by a demon in its final moments, the type of spiritual disease that resisted mortal healing methods by its very nature. It would fight any attempt to separate it from its host, but Dirk cast his net and used his magic to tug and pull at the source. Even with his understanding of how the curse worked, it was like trying to dig water out of a hole in the sand. 

Dirk threw himself into the countercurse, pouring his magic into the demonic mark. He couldn’t tell for sure if the paladin’s glassy eyes and breathy sounds were from pain, but it didn’t matter. As the curse fought back, Dirk matched it with everything he had, until he felt it weaken and bend to his pulling. When he finally tore it away from Dave’s soul, it went with one last vengeful burn to the palm of his hand. 

Dirk broke contact and stepped back, shaking his hand out with a pained grunt as the curse’s residue dissipated once and for all. His disguise had failed now that his magic was exhausted, and his flesh was back to its normal dessicated appearance. When he turned to check on the paladin, he saw Dave sitting up and staring down at his own bare chest. The runes had apparently been consumed along with the curse, and now his alabaster skin was unmarked and smooth with no trace of the original wound. Dave looked up a moment later, and Dirk was unprepared for the raw emotion in his eyes.

“Holy shit . . . you actually did it. You healed me.”

“That’s a word for it,” Dirk rasped in his undisguised voice, relieved that he’d closed the clinic’s curtains earlier. Dave swung his legs over the table and stood, leaning against it for support.

“Why?” He asked softly, and Dirk couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. “Why did you help me? Don’t lie this time.”

‘Fine,’ Dirk thought, and said nothing at all. Dave waited for an answer, and when he didn’t get one, his hand went to the pendant medallion around his neck, and his next words made Dirk’s blood freeze.

“I know what this is.” Dave’s fingers closed around the pendant into a gentle fist. “Rose figured it out after you gave it back. Jade wanted to destroy it for what you’d done to us. John wanted to blackmail you with it. I just wanted to know why my family’s heirloom is your phylactery.” He released his grip, and held Dirk’s alarmed expression with an intense, thoughtful gaze. “But I think I get it now. You’re him, aren’t you? The dead prince.” 

Dirk’s silence confirmed it. He folded his arms and quietly came to terms with the fact that it wasn’t a secret anymore. His feelings about Dave’s ownership of the phylactery hadn’t changed, but he’d hoped to avoid complicating things like this, even though there was nothing else he could have done. The life of his one remaining relative was too important.

“They say his grave was desecrated and the body was never found,” Dave continued, his tone reverent and subdued. “My direct ancestor was the only one who escaped the castle when it was attacked. We apparently came to Skaia after that. I’ve lived here my whole life.” He gave Dirk a long, searching look. “How long have you been here? I know you didn’t come looking for me. You really fucked us up back in the crypt.”

“It was self defense,” Dirk muttered, “but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“What are you really doing here?” Dave was still leaning against the table, shaken from the unexpected clean bill of health, but he’d wiped his eyes and now seemed intent on getting answers. 

“I’m not hurting people, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Dirk humored him, feeling less of an inclination to lie and misdirect. He noticed something wet on his hand and remembered the self-inflicted knife wound. It would need to be wrapped to stop the bleeding, and he went to the shelf to fetch a roll of gauze while he talked. “I made a promise to kill our family’s murderer, and I’m here to keep it. I don’t want you getting involved.”

“Our family’s . . . ?” Dave trailed off while Dirk bandaged his hand. “But I thought they were killed by a monster. That’s what my grandparents told me.”

“It was a monster,” Dirk affirmed, his voice low and harsh. “A disgusting, greedy creature that wore the skin of a merchant lord and killed for pleasure.”

“And it’s here?” Dave asked incredulously.

“It wears a different skin now. I have plans to deal with it, and they don’t involve you. I won’t risk it.”

Dave sighed and went to retrieve his shirt where he’d tossed it over the back of a chair. He pulled it on and left the top unlaced, his fingers idly rubbing against the pendant medallion’s crest.

“Do you want this back?” he asked quietly.

“No. It belongs to you now. Do whatever you want with it.” Dirk punctuated his words by pulling the bandage tight and ignoring the weird look Dave gave him. The paladin let out another long sigh.

“Then at least tell me where this monster is so I can avoid it.”

“He’s a dracolich that pretends to be human.” Dirk conceded the information, knowing Dave wouldn’t be satisfied without it. “You know him as the Lord Chief Justice of Prospit.”

“Lord English is an undead dragon,” Dave deadpanned, his brow lifted.

“Now you know the truth.” Dirk gave him a severe look, which he hoped was all the more intimidating with his undead visage. “Don’t get involved.”

“Wow, I mean . . . no wonder, I guess.” Dave was seemingly unaffected by the intimidation attempt. “Is that why you’re . . .” He gestured vaguely at Dirk, who shook his head.

“No. What happened to me was an accident. He still thinks I died with the others.”

“You must be looking for his phylactery, then,” Dave mused.

“Not yet, but I will when I’m ready. I wasn’t lying about learning white magic. He’ll be weak against it.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. It’s not exactly compatible with, uh . . .” Dave gestured at him again. “But I guess if anyone can teach a lich white magic, it’s Nanna Egbert.”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Dirk demanded, adding, “please. I’m . . . trusting you with this.”

Dave shrugged. “My friends already know you’re around Prospit. I’ve gotta let them in on this, but I won’t tell anyone else. Your secret’s safe with us. Besides,” he smiled, “I’ve got your soul. I’ll make sure you don’t do anything bad.”

Dirk nodded once, resigned to this new arrangement. It felt good to put his existence in the hands of someone who dealt in justice.

“I’ll have to think of something to tell Nanna Egbert about my curse being gone,” Dave said while lacing up the front of his shirt, “unless you want to tell her the truth, but it might ruin your apprentice shtick.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Dirk unlatched the front door and stood aside. It would take some time to recover his magic enough to re-cast his disguise, and he planned on closing the clinic for the night after Dave left. The paladin approached, but instead of reaching for the door, his hands reached for Dirk’s wrists. He lifted them and slid his fingers down until their palms met (one bandaged, the other bare against Dave’s warm skin).

“Thank you.” He spoke softly, clasping Dirk’s shriveled fingers. “You saved my life, and . . . I don’t know what to say or how to repay you, but I promise I'll figure something out. I knew I had those visions for a reason.”

“Visions?” Dirk asked, unsure how to feel about the strange intimacy of clasping hands and standing less than a foot apart as they talked.

“You weren’t curious about how I tracked you down twice?” Dave’s smile was mischievous. “You can’t hide from the gods, man. I had visions about you in the crypt and then in the sewer in Prospit, and I knew I needed to go alone the second time.” He shrugged. “But that’s what being a paladin’s all about - having faith and protecting people and doing the right thing, even when it’s stupid and dangerous. That’s what the heavy plate armor is for, you know?”

“You had visions of me?” Dirk repeated, not sure how to feel about that either. Dave nodded.

“It’s sorta Milil’s thing, granting visions of long-lost family and friends to his devotees. Although I thought you were some evil bastard I needed to smite. We get those visions too. Not knowing the difference this time around was kinda weird.” He finally released Dirk’s hands, giving him a small, confident smile. “Milil has always favored our family.”

Dirk hummed and kept his mouth shut rather than disagree with that particularly naive sentiment. The sky was just starting to darken as the colors of sunset faded, and Dave bade him farewell with the promise that he'd visit next week after coming up with a convincing story for the old woman about how he'd been cured. Dirk shut the door and closed up for the night, feeling a surprising lack of concern that Dave or his friends would expose him. His remaining family was alive and well, and against that treasured knowledge, his vindictive quest for revenge against the dracolich paled in comparison.


	5. Chapter 5

Two days passed uneventfully after Dave’s visit to the clinic. Dirk knew he’d kept his word, because there was no ambush set by Prospit’s paladins to drag him away, nor did he collapse and die with the destruction of his phylactery. Mrs. Egbert seemed to remember leaving them together, but didn’t question what had happened beyond kindly asking “how did it go?” and accepting Dirk’s positive but evasive answers.

It was the end of the week now, and the sun had just started to rise. Dirk put away the reference book on white magic he’d spent all night reviewing and got to work opening the clinic for business. The old woman would arrive later once she’d finished having breakfast with her family, and Dirk began the fifth day of his apprenticeship by casting his disguise, opening the curtains, heating a pot of water over the fireplace, and retrieving the list of that day’s appointments from a drawer of loose paperwork. He was almost starting to enjoy the routine domesticity - something he’d never had in life as a prince with his duties and responsibilities. It was on that morning, while Dirk relaxed by the window and stoked the fire beneath the pot, that he heard an urgent knock at the door.

It seemed their first appointment was early. Dirk hadn’t unlocked the door yet, and the old woman had her own key, so this was the most logical explanation. He stood and went to open it, expecting a single person on the doorstep rather than the several people he was faced with. They were all familiar to him - the warlock with her dark embroidered robes, the fighter with his warhammer strapped to his back, and the ranger, arms crossed with a vindictive glare, her face covered in small scars from their previous encounter. The implications of their presence triggered an immediate knot of fear in his gut.

“What happened?” Dirk demanded, searching their faces for an answer. The warlock - Rose, if he was remembering her name correctly, cleared her throat and spoke, her unsteady voice confirming his fears.

“It’s Dave.” She began with the obvious. “He . . . we didn’t know where else to go.”

“He got arrested,” the fighter added, glancing at Rose. “He's going on trial this morning for . . .”

“Attempted assassination,” the ranger finished, her tone making it clear who she thought was to blame, “because someone told him the Lord Chief Justice is an undead dragon in disguise, and now he’s going to be put to death, and it’s your fault!”

“Jade, not here,” Rose asked, insistent and soft, but Dirk was barely listening to them. He should have expected the paladin to do something stupid with the information he’d given him, but he didn't think Dave would go and get himself killed.

“Where is he?” Dirk urged, not bothering to hide his rising panic at the situation. Rose was the first to answer.

“The trial will be held this morning at the law court with the entire council presiding,” including Lord English, said her unspoken words. As Lord Chief Justice, he would preside over the trial while the other council members sat in attendance, and the thought made Dirk’s chest burn with rage, like he'd inhaled the dracolich’s poison all over again. Rose reached into the pocket of her robes. 

“He left this behind,” she said, pulling out the pendant medallion on its silver chain, “for safekeeping, his letter said, in case anything went wrong.” She held the necklace out, but Dirk barely glanced at it. 

“Take me there,” he said, before ducking inside to grab his traveling cloak. Rose pocketed the necklace and shared a meaningful look with the others as Dirk pulled the door shut behind him and joined Dave’s friends in the street. The market district had only the occasional early shopper and merchant out at this hour, but Dirk pulled his hood up regardless as they began leading him through the city.

“What exactly are you going to do?” John asked, after they all shared a long, awkward silence. 

“I'll think of something,” he muttered, his mind racing for solutions as Dave’s friends shared another wordless look. The dracolich, knowingly or not, was about to murder his family all over again. He wanted to run straight to the courthouse and burn it down from the inside out, but he forced himself to match their walking pace - Rose in the lead, John beside him, and Jade lingering behind with an air of hostile suspicion.

“You're a super powerful lich, right?” John asked, loud enough that Dirk frowned at him from beneath his hood. “So can’t you just bust him out or raise an army of the undead or something?”

“Not in a single morning,” Dirk admitted bitterly.

“John, remember,” Rose added, “every member of the council will be there in attendance, and most of them are divine magic practitioners. If Lord English is truly a dracolich, then he must be exceedingly powerful to have kept it a secret all this time.”

“Dirk was staying at my grandma’s clinic and she didn’t notice,” John countered and was ignored by the others, but it caught Dirk by surprise. He hadn’t noticed the resemblance before, but it was obvious now that he really looked at John and thought about the old woman’s face. 

“I still think we should turn him in, even if he is Dave’s long-lost whatever,” Jade grumbled, gesturing at Dirk from behind his back. “Dave was obviously being manipulated. They can’t convict him, it’s not fair!”

“We already discussed this,” Rose admonished, as the four of them reached the end of the market district and the streets transitioned from cobblestone into a luminescent white brick. “Dave’s note told us explicitly not to blame Dirk if something went wrong, and exposing him now won’t help us.”

“You don’t know that,” Jade retorted. “We should at least try!”

“You know as well as I do that everyone who gets arrested is checked for magical influences at the time, and I doubt Dave would blame Dirk even if it set him free in the process. It would break Dave’s heart and his trust in us.”

“I don’t care about that if it means he’s going to die!”

Jade caught up to walk alongside Rose and continue their argument, and Dirk used the distraction to ask John (who seemed to be the most forthcoming of the three) about what had happened last night, desperately hoping the information might be useful.

“Dave left us a note that said he needed to find a scepter with a big emerald on top? Not sure why, but everyone in the paladin’s barracks was talking about how he got arrested at Lord English’s manor last night, so I guess he broke in and got caught,” John said, then glanced back at Dirk as his pace slowed. Everything was suddenly fitting together like puzzle pieces. Dave, somehow, must have discovered the identity of Lord English’s phylactery and got caught in the process of trying to steal it. The most likely explanation was another of his divine visions from his patron god Milil, and Dirk bitterly cursed the deity that seemed driven to kill Dave by luring him into one deadly situation after another. John gave him an odd look as Dirk shook off his anger and kept walking. “You didn’t . . . tell him to do that, did you?”

“No,” Dirk answered, though he doubted John believed him, “but I shouldn’t have told him about the dracolich. It was a mistake.”

“So . . . are you going to turn yourself in?” John ventured carefully.

‘If it’s the only way to save him, I will,’ Dirk thought, and said nothing. The information was vital in its own way, but it wouldn’t help them stop the trial and the immediate threat against Dave’s life. Lord English’s manor was sure to be heavily guarded, and the phylactery itself would be hidden and protected by magical traps. Even if they were somehow able to destroy it and Lord English were to drop dead in the middle of the trial’s proceedings, the charges against Dave would still stand, and it was likely that no one would believe them. With this in mind, Dirk decided to keep the information to himself. Rose continued her argument with Jade as they walked several paces ahead.

“We cannot ignore the fact that he cured Dave. He could have withheld the cure in return for Dave’s servitude, but he gave it freely.”

“He probably did that just to gain our trust,” she muttered, glancing back at Dirk with suspicion that turned to anger when their eyes met. “He’s protecting you, and you're about to get him killed. If he dies-”

“Jade,” Rose interrupted softly, and Jade left the unfinished threat hanging. “We are out of options. Lord English is a respected member of the council, and at this point, the trial is only a formality. Exposing Dave’s relations with . . .” her voice lowered to a loud whisper, “with a lich will not absolve him now.”

Jade sulked for a moment, falling out of step with Rose and ignoring John’s awkward cough. Dirk wasn’t interested in justifying his actions or defending himself to them, and as the towering golden dome and shining white spires of Prospit’s court of law came into view, he beheld it with an inescapable sense of doom and finality. In that moment, he was an animal walking to its own slaughter, surrounded by sacred temples and religious monuments that, in their divine beauty, implied a violent, unquestioning opposition to his presence. The devout of Prospit would descend upon him like a mechanical trap - deaf to reason or whatever morally gray compromise Dave’s friends had reached amongst themselves. Dirk knew this, and it frightened him. Fortunately, there was no time to second-guess himself with how quickly this was happening, and it numbed the panic that threatened to choke him.

Despite the early hour, the courthouse’s steps hosted a small crowd of loitering people. The main doors, huge and golden, were shut to casual observers while the chamber was prepared, as Rose explained, but the sitting gallery would allow them to watch the trial in relative anonymity from the sidelines. A few of the spectators were surprisingly well-built for city folk, and Dirk wondered if some of Dave’s fellow paladins had come to watch the trial. Dirk kept his distance from them and waited across the street with Dave’s friends. Although he didn’t count himself among them, he took comfort in their presence as Jade leaned against a wall, Rose kept a subtle eye on the people around them, and John swayed back and forth on his heels impatiently.

“What’s our plan?” Jade asked, her voice neutral on the surface with an undertone of hopelessness beneath. John shrugged and made a noncommittal sound without meeting her eyes. Rose’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but she said nothing. “Well?” Jade prompted, and Dirk realized she was talking to him. “You’re going to save him, right?” she asked, crossing her arms with a demanding stare.

Dirk knew he wasn’t ready to face the dracolich. His spell was only two-thirds complete and there had been no time to prepare, not to mention the circumstances were unimaginably bad. Dirk couldn’t think of a worse time and place to confront the dracolich than in the heart of Prospit’s sacred district with the entire ruling council in attendance. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready, but he had no choice, because to do nothing would be to lose Dave, and he couldn’t bear the thought. Right now it felt like he was reliving the worst day of his life, and Jade must have seen it on his face, because she abandoned the question as her frustration faded into a quiet, shared misery.

Eventually, the golden doors parted from the inside. Their weapons were surrendered to the courthouse’s guards, and Dirk stayed close to the others as they walked through the polished white-gold halls towards the building’s main chamber. The carved pillars and arched windows were beautiful, but Dirk was blind to it all as the cold grip of panic tightened around his throat. ‘At least I’m not doing this alone,’ he thought, desperate for that one small comfort as Dave’s friends led him into the huge circular chamber at the center of Prospit’s sacred courthouse.

The hallway ended at the top of the sitting gallery, where rows of benches filled in a quarter of the chamber’s polished marble floor. There was a slight downward slope into the center of the room, followed by a stretch of empty space between the front row of benches and a small platform in the center where the accused would stand. From there to the far end of the chamber was another length of empty space that met the wall, and above it was a narrow second-floor balcony that would likely seat the council members. Behind and above that stretched a breathtaking wall of stained glass, ornately fashioned with bright vibrant blues and gleaming whites into a stylized clouded sky. The shadows of large, nearby temples were just barely visible as the sun rose above Prospit’s rooftops, but the ceiling-height window was clearly designed to catch the light and radiate it through colored glass into a magnificent work of art. The ceiling above was a shining golden dome that made the room feel enormous, and the sound of the other spectators moving in and choosing their seats made the room echo with footfalls and soft chatter.

Rose led their group to a row of benches near the back of the sitting area. She entered first and sat near the middle, with Jade taking the seat beside her. Dirk followed her and John came last, sitting at the end of the row by the aisle. Rose leaned forward so her hushed voice would reach all three of them, her hands clasped together hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

“If you have a plan,” she whispered urgently at Dirk, “now is the time to let us in on it.”

“He doesn’t have a plan,” Jade grumbled, her eyes red and watery. “We’re obviously just going to sit here and watch Dave get sentenced to death.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as another spectator entered their row and slipped past them to take the empty seat next to Rose. He was joined by two more, and before Dirk could think of something to say that wasn’t a blatant admission of helplessness, a loud chime of bells snuffed out the murmur of conversation around them.

There was movement on the balcony across the room. Dirk watched as the council members filed into their seats with the dignified manners befitting a formal event. John tapped his shoulder and pointed out a tall older woman with white hair and a scar over her right eye. She wore plate armor that looked ornate but functional, and John identified her as Lady Peregrine the High Marshal, exalted leader of the paladins. She would likely be the first to cut Dirk’s head off if he were discovered. The dracolich was the last of the council members to enter the chamber, and he walked to the raised seat at the center of the balcony like a king. He sat there, in his lavish green-gold robes and jewelry-adorned fingers, and surveyed the court with smug satisfaction, every bit the predator anticipating a delicious meal. The court guards took their places, the spectators settled into silence, and the door at the far end of the room opened as the accused was led into the chamber.

Dirk clenched his hands into fists until it hurt. The two guards on either side of Dave each had one of his arms in their grip as they walked him to the raised platform in the center. He was wearing a plain set of clothes, similar to the ones he’d been wearing at the clinic, and he wasn’t bound or restrained other than the shackles around his wrists. Jade sniffed and folded her arms in her lap, curling into herself to avoid watching the proceedings. Rose’s expression was stony and pale, and John was muttering under his breath, glaring in the council’s general direction. The atmosphere in the chamber was tense and heavy, as Dave took his place on the pedestal and the charges were read.

It was impossible to believe the things they were accusing him of. Dave was apparently permitted to argue in his own defense, but he said nothing as Lord English talked at length, describing the troubled young paladin who broke into his home last night and raised a sword over his defenseless sleeping form, poised to murder the Lord Chief Justice for some imagined slight or political difference. Perhaps the young man had been radicalized by his delinquent friends, for whom he’d abandoned the structure and discipline of the Order where responsible paladins lived and worked for the public good. Maybe this was a symptom of allowing the paladin’s oath to be taken at too young an age, before the development of rationality and reason in such impressionable young minds. Perhaps they were fortunate that Lord English had been the first target and not one of the other esteemed council members, and how terrible and frightening the experience had been, to wake and see a blade poised to strike, but Lord English would gladly put himself in harm’s way if his sacrifice meant an opportunity to catch the one responsible before the others might come to harm. For that, he profusely thanked Dave for targeting him first. If Dirk had been alive, he would have been sick. Dave was silent through it all, perhaps knowing that his words held no weight here, and sure enough Lord English touched on the wild accusations that he was actually some kind of monster in disguise, lacing his denial with pity for the poor, delusional young man.

Dirk felt empty and useless. He’d come here without a plan, and there was nothing he could do with the guards and plainclothes paladins surrounding them, not to mention the council members themselves. His disguise had worked so far, but any amount of direct attention from an elite divine spellcaster would reveal his true nature and spell disaster for himself and Dave, and as the sunlight broke over the rooftops and lit the stained glass window into a radiant wall of color and light, Dirk suddenly knew exactly what he needed to do.

Dave’s friends said nothing as he stood from his seat on the bench. They watched in silent, wide-eyed confusion as he moved into the aisle and began walking towards the center of the chamber. By then his movements had attracted the attention of the other spectators, followed by the guards at the bottom of the gallery. They stood at attention and prepared to intercept him as Dirk approached the final row of benches, but he cast his suggestion spell, instructing them to stand aside and let him pass, for there was no danger. As Dirk stepped out onto the open courtroom floor, Dave’s head turned and the rising murmurs from the spectators in the gallery began to echo. Lord English’s self-righteous monologue trailed off, and Dirk now felt the oppressive attention of the entire room on his cloaked shoulders. He ignored Dave (his expression surprised and achingly hopeful), and walked past the raised platform to stand before the council in the blue-white light of the stained glass window.

Dirk raised his head and beheld the dracolich, perched in its seat of power and regarding him with bemused, offended curiosity. In another moment, Lord English would probably give the order to have Dirk dragged away and arrested. Instead, Dirk lifted his arms and slowly pulled his hood down to bare his face to the council. He locked eyes with the dracolich and held his enemy’s gaze with all the defiance and hatred that had festered in him for centuries. 

‘That’s right,’ he thought vindictively, as recognition began to dawn on Lord English’s face. ‘Remember me? You murdered my family and left me for dead, but I’m here now to drag you down into the abyss where you belong . . . even if it destroys us both.’

Dirk lifted his hands and conjured the incomplete spell he’d been working on for the better part of a year. He knew it wouldn’t incapacitate the dracolich or inflict any significant amount of damage, but with some luck, it might just be enough to break through the magical disguise Lord English wore like a human skin, hiding his true nature from Prospit and the other council members. Dirk poured his hatred for the dracolich into his spell, and along with it came his desperation to protect the only living family member he had left. The guards finally recognized the danger and moved to stop him, but Dirk reached out and released his spell from the palm of his hand - a crackling black bolt of anti-undead and anti-draconic energy. The council members had already begun to stand and flee from the balcony, but Lord English bared his teeth into a snarl and raised his hands to block the spell, and it broke around him like water against a rock.

Chaos descended as the air in the chamber whipped into a crackling cyclone of opposing magics. Those in the sitting gallery began scrambling up and over the benches to flee, and there was no time left to check on Dave or his friends. Dirk had expected a fight, and had known the dracolich might successfully resist his spell, but as his magic continued to push against Lord English’s barrier, he felt a sudden and horrific awareness of the monster in front of him. This was not just a dragon that had grown to adulthood before transitioning into unlife as Dirk had. This creature was primordial - more ancient than the cities of humanity, its birth predating even the continental map as it was now. It had existed at the very beginning of dragonkind, far before the advent of human civilization, and Dirk’s five hundred years were nothing compared to the near-godhood of this malignant horror that leered down at him in human skin, amused and hungry to punish him for his insolence.

Dirk had sustained the magical bolt for only a few seconds in reality, but he could already feel his reserves draining as the dracolich resisted the attack. His own disguise fell as he threw everything into the spell, condemning him to Prospit’s judgement no matter the outcome. The guards were waiting on the sidelines now for an opening to neutralize the obvious threat - a lich trying to assassinate their Lord Chief Justice. Dirk couldn’t get rid of them without risking a lapse in concentration, but it wouldn’t matter soon. His power was almost depleted, and in truth, Dirk never stood a chance against the dracolich. For every century he’d grown in power and knowledge, the dracolich had done the same, and it had an insurmountable head start.

Now, as his spell began to fail along with his only chance to spare Dave from his family’s fate, there was a strange feeling in Dirk’s chest like the striking of a flint. Since the moment of his death, there had been a smoldering presence at his core, like an ember hidden beneath a pile of burned wood. He’d known the color of it somehow - a shimmering gold that matched the sparkling flecks in his blood and the strange potion that had killed him before the dracolich’s poison could finish the job. Now it glowed brighter and brighter, before flaring to life with a sudden rush of unbearable heat and power. Dirk’s insides burned as it flooded him with molten gold, surging up his arm and erupting from the palm of his outstretched hand. His own spell dissolved in a blinding golden beam of divine magic that cut through the air with a harmonic shriek and struck true, piercing the dracolich’s barrier.

The effect was instantaneous. Where once a man had stood, a gigantic undead dragon now appeared - the very same nightmare that Dirk had beheld in his ancestral home, but this time its decomposing reptilian maw opened in a roar of indignant rage as the balcony broke beneath its claws and sent it pitching over backwards. The screams of the spectators were drowned out as the enormous stained glass window shattered into a deafening hail of color and glass, and the monster fell backwards on its rotting wings into the holy center of Prospit.

Dirk staggered on his feet, his power drained and his senses dulled. While the city erupted into apocalyptic chaos, he heard someone shout his name and saw the remaining guards approaching with their swords drawn, but the glowing ember at his core was spent. He recognized it now as the cause of his unlife - a divine connection to whatever god had intervened on the night of his death (probably the same as Dave’s patron deity, and his feelings about that were mixed). Dirk also had a fundamental disagreement with the concept that a lich could lose consciousness, but here he was, sinking to the floor in the glass and rubble from the ruined wall, now open to the morning sky and the sounds of a cataclysmic battle as Dave, his hands still shackled together, raced to intercept the guards. This was the last thing Dirk saw before he closed his eyes. 

It didn’t quite feel like dying, but with his family safe and the dracolich meeting its end, Dirk’s burden was finally lifted. Vengeance had driven him since death, and now peace settled in its place, soothing the pain and regret he’d carried for centuries. His body and mind were like a wind-up toy spinning to a slow, wobbly stop, a hot coal on a cold stone floor in winter, a puppet with its strings cut. But eventually, that eternal golden ember in his chest recovered of its own volition and began trickling its power back into his blood, just enough that he became aware of both arms pulled up and back at the elbows, his body sagging forward and his feet dragging against the floor. There were sounds and voices, but his senses were still dulled along with his vision. Time and awareness faded in and out, and it was mildly frustrating if nothing else. Dirk had accomplished what he’d come here to do, and he held no fear or concern for what came next.

Waking up in earnest felt like climbing from the grave all over again. Dirk knew he was in chains before he even tried to move, and he felt the smothering presence of an antimagic aura filling the air like a thick, invisible fog, preventing any spells from being cast. He was sitting against the wall in some kind of prison, judging from the stone interior and iron bars, and the absence of windows paired with the flicker of lit torches meant it was probably located underground. Someone had walked away the moment he’d woken up, and it wasn’t more than a few minutes before they returned with several others in tow.

Dave, his hands unshackled and his clothes different from what he’d been wearing at the trial, rushed in the moment the guard unlocked the door. Someone tried to grab him - the old, armored woman from the trial, Lady Peregrine - but Dave pulled away and knelt with Dirk on the floor. The reunion was confusing and too much for Dirk to follow all at once, but Dave held him close despite the chains and thanked him over and over again, his words halting and choked with emotion. Lady Peregrine scowled down at them as the guards waited outside (not guards - paladins, Dirk realized suddenly. This was no ordinary prison). Her eyes were gray and cold, and she kept one hand resting on the long, thin sword strapped to her waist as she ordered Dave to stand and began the interrogation.

It went surprisingly well, considering Dirk’s expectations when he’d imagined being captured. A full day had passed since the incident in the law court. Apparently Dave and the others had already confessed everything, and this now was about deciding what to do with Dirk. The dracolich had been slain and it’s emerald scepter had been found and destroyed, killing it permanently. The city would be picking up the pieces of ruin and death the battle had caused for a very long time, and Dirk would need to answer for that. Dave argued back on Dirk’s behalf that there had been no other way, and Lady Peregrine understood this, but hundreds of innocent people had died as a result.

Dirk found his voice and apologised as best he could for the collateral damage, accepting full responsibility and making it clear that he had no expectations of forgiveness. That led to the reason why the Order hadn’t outright killed him the way they’d destroyed the dracolich. There was no denying that the beam of energy Dirk used to break Lord English’s disguise had been holy power, and while Dirk was unconscious, a thorough magical examination had been performed, and the results were unprecedented. The word “archlich” was used, something that was unheard of in all but the most ancient and unreliable of texts, and which Dirk had never come across even in his centuries of research. It was a myth on par with silly, made-up superstitions. An undead creature that drew its power not from death and evil, but from a benevolent source like a patron deity - a holy lich, or an archlich of Milil, in Dirk’s case. Her words resonated with the truth as he felt the familiar golden glow in his chest, and Dirk sent a quiet, resigned expression of thanks towards it like a belated offering.

The next few weeks passed slowly and without the singular purpose of revenge that had driven Dirk tirelessly since death. He spent the first few days sitting in chains, and would have been bored to the point of torture if he wasn’t still recovering from the total drain of his power. His mind was happy to rest in the dark and quiet, wandering in a dreamlike state of reflection and thought as the hours passed, broken only by Lady Peregrine’s daily follow-up interrogations or the more frequent visits from Dave, who filled their time together with rambling conversations that didn’t require a lot of participation on Dirk’s part, for which he was grateful in his current state. Among the many other, more causal topics they discussed, Dave helpfully filled him in on the ongoing rebuilding of the city and the establishment of a memorial graveyard for the victims of the attack. He also lamented Lady Peregrine’s confiscation of Dirk’s phylactery, which was understandable. The necklace had been Dave’s most precious possession even before he’d met Dirk and learned of their familial connection. 

Dave talked often about his friends, and mentioned how grateful he was that they had gone to Dirk for help on the morning of the trial. He also expressed a profound, heartfelt gratitude for how Dirk had saved him not once, but twice. He expressed this in many different ways. He rubbed the dessicated skin around the shackles on Dirk’s wrists and ankles despite Dirk’s reassurance that they weren’t really bothering him too much. He sat on the floor with Dirk as he talked, close enough to lean against him, his voice pitched low and soft, and Dirk felt . . . treasured, and confused at what he’d done to earn it. The gratitude he understood more easily, since he’d cured Dave’s terminal curse and saved him from execution, but there was also a warmth that reminded him of the loved ones he’d grown up with and lost, rather than someone he’d met only recently and interacted with a handful of times before now. Dave’s attachment to him was strange, but it was the best thing in Dirk’s life right now, and as he grew to anticipate and enjoy their visits together, he noticed in between that Dave’s absence began to ache. 

Eventually the chains came off for good behavior, and Dirk’s freedom expanded to the actual confines of his cell, but still within the shroud of the antimagic aura. He was given a small wooden table with chairs and an unnecessary bedroll on the floor, but the gesture was appreciated nonetheless. Lady Peregrine’s visits went from interrogations to something more like negotiations. It was made clear that Dirk must pay his debts to the city and its people, whether that meant punishment or some form of community service, and he submitted to the outcome of her judgement in whatever form it might take. In truth, he felt little regret for the consequences of his actions because it had been the only way to rescue Dave, and she seemed to know this. Her manner towards him wasn’t friendly by any means, but they reached a mutual understanding after those first few weeks, and Dirk was soon released on probation into what turned out to be a sprawling compound of buildings that made up Prospit’s main sanctum of the paladins’ ruling Order.

The next few weeks that followed felt like Dirk had woken up in someone else’s life. He hadn’t bothered to plan for what he might do if he succeeded at killing the dracolich, but living in a sanctum of paladins while his fate was decided hadn’t been anywhere near his list of possibilities. He wasn’t allowed to leave the compound, which was nestled amongst the temples and relatively undamaged from the battle following the trial (compared to the broken skyline of the other buildings in ruins), and the incident was still talked about like any community might linger on a recent natural disaster. There wasn’t much else for Dirk to do besides wander the compound, and despite wearing his living disguise, Dirk’s presence attracted stares and whispers and cautious hands on pommels everywhere he went, so when Dave invited him to stay in his room in the barracks, he gratefully accepted the offer.

The barracks were a large multi-level building with many branches and tight rooms packed into clusters. Dave and his friends were the only residents of a particular dead-end branch that was quieter than the rest by virtue of their location in the corner of the compound. Dave had his own room, with John living next door, and Rose and Jade sharing a larger room just across the hall. The wooden floors and walls were simple and old, but well-built, and Dave had decorated his small room with tapestries and rugs and odd parchments that seemed to be abstract works of art. There were various musical instruments scattered around on display, but they looked practical and worn with use, rather than kept only for decoration. Dirk was still in the process of waiting for Lady Peregrine’s verdict, so he claimed a table and chair in the corner of Dave’s room and began passing the time as best he could. 

John was the first to visit and re-introduce himself. He also informed Dirk, much to his surprise, that Mrs. Egbert had extended an open invitation for him to return and complete his apprenticeship if he was still interested in learning white magic. Dirk asked if she knew he was a lich, and John said yes, she’d found out along with the rest of Prospit as word had gotten around, but apparently Dirk was the hardest working apprentice she’d ever had. The thought made him smile, and he promised to take her up on the offer in the future if it was allowed.

Rose visited next, and brought him the first of many interesting books to help pass the time. She turned out to be a very pleasant conversationalist, and Dirk learned that she was Dave’s half sister, but didn’t share the Strider lineage. She was fascinated with the old kingdom of Derse and the events that led up to Dirk’s undeath, and she repaid his information with her own knowledge about the eldritch, to which Dirk listened with academic fascination. Dave was amused at how well they got along, and made gentle fun of them for it. 

Jade was a different matter. She ignored Dirk for the most part, but did eventually thank him for rescuing Dave from the dracolich. Her white wolf companion lived in the barracks with her and Rose, and it growled at Dirk whenever he made eye contact or entered the same room with it. Jade seemed vindictively amused, and Dirk resigned himself to walking in the other direction whenever he encountered the wolf in a narrow hallway. Its anger at him was justified, and he knew its forgiveness (along with Jade’s) would be a hard-earned and uncertain privilege. 

Time passed, and life in the barracks settled into a comfortable and familiar routine. Dave and his friends were often sent off on simple missions in Prospit’s surrounding villages - things too complicated for the village guards, but not dangerous or important enough for the Order to deal with directly. Dave was barely a member to begin with, since he’d rejected the regimented training and hierarchy, but he and his friends were permitted to live in the barracks if they accepted the missions Lady Peregrine assigned to them. Sometimes they’d return with questions or strange objects or a mystery they couldn’t solve, and Dirk tried his best to help them. It was the least he could do, and it wasn’t much thanks to his status as a prisoner of the Order, but as time passed and Dave’s friends began to accept him and trust his advice, he found himself settling into the role with a surprising level of comfort.

Apparently it was Rose who first presented the idea to Lady Peregrine regarding Dirk’s unique skill set. It was the sacred mission of Prospit’s paladins to hunt and destroy the evil creatures that threatened the kingdom of Skaia, and few of those creatures were more dangerous and feared than liches. Finding them was hard enough in the first place, and even the most skilled paladins were often defeated by these apex immortal necromancers. Dirk had spent centuries preparing to kill the dracolich, and not only was he magically powerful and practiced in anti-undead spells, but his own undead nature also made him immune to many of the necromantic spells and techniques that were devastating to the living. If Dirk needed to atone for lost lives and repay his debt to Prospit, then this might be the perfect arrangement, although it would require a good amount of travel around the kingdom, as rumors were often the first and only sign of a lich’s presence. Fortunately, Dave and his friends were always up for a long quest, and Dirk had proven himself to be an intelligent and trustworthy consultant. The idea was discussed behind closed doors amongst the remaining members of the council, and even Rose was surprised at the final verdict.

Lady Peregrine arrived at the barracks the following day to return Dave’s heirloom necklace and set a few ground rules for Dirk. It was nothing unreasonable - just strict reminders that he was to follow Dave’s orders and avoid causing any collateral damage. Dirk’s status was still probationary, but in light of his cooperativity and good behavior, the council had decided to give Rose’s idea a chance. Dave’s group would become specialized lich hunters, although dealing with vampires and other undead pests wouldn’t be out of the question either. Jade in particular seemed excited at the prospect, apparently bored with their usual errands around Prospit’s outskirts, and she celebrated with John as they made plans to start with Skaia’s northern border where the villages were remote and ominous rumors were common. Dave celebrated with Dirk in private, congratulating him on becoming a probationary member-by-proxy of the paladin’s Order.

“I didn’t think I’d actually get this far,” Dirk confided, not bothering with his living disguise as they sat together at the table in Dave’s room, now covered in books and notes from the weeks Dirk had spent living with him. “I didn’t care about what came after, and if it weren’t for you, I’d probably . . .” not even bother with all this, Dirk finished silently. It was unfortunate that killing the dracolich had come at such a cost to Prospit’s citizens, but a death sentence at the hands of its paladins would have been a fair and acceptable trade. Without Dave, he might have even asked for it, but there was no doubt that Dave cared about him deeply, and such a thing was out of the question now. There were hints, here and there, that Dave’s early life had left invisible scars, and it might have contributed to the strange intensity of his attachment.

“Yeah you’re kinda stuck with us now, aren’t you?” Dave asked with an amused shrug. “I know you didn’t plan for this, but it could’ve been worse . . . right? Things didn’t turn out so bad,” he said quietly, half-joking, but with an apologetic undertone. “When I had that vision of English’s phylactery, I thought about telling you, but I figured you’d been through enough already, you know? I owed you a favor for helping me, and I didn’t want to put my friends in danger, so I did the stupid paladin thing.”

“You did the stupid paladin thing,” Dirk agreed solemnly, and Dave laughed, and Dirk thought about how much he liked the sound of it. 

“Sorry about screwing up all your carefully laid plans, but you’ve gotta admit, when Milil pulls the strings, it’s like the world’s most divine tapestry coming together,” Dave said reverently, and even though Dirk wanted to disagree and resented the thought of being manipulated all this time, there was no denying how unbelievably good the outcome had been, and if left to his own devices, Dirk probably would have been dead five hundred years ago. This was a second chance, and he decided then and there to dedicate himself to this new purpose, now sitting across from him and regarding him with an affection that he hadn’t earned yet, but might someday. Dave would soon retire to his bed for the night, and Dirk would stay up as usual, reading and taking notes to pass the time, but tomorrow they would embark on a series of adventures that would take them across the kingdom of Skaia.

‘I will make it up to you,’ Dirk thought, watching Dave from across the room as he slept. This was his purpose now, to be a guardian for his surviving family and to make up for lost time and whatever pain Dave might have suffered in his absence. As he watched Dave’s chest rise and fall, Dirk swore this oath in silence, and it felt like kneeling at a sacred altar with an offering held out in his hands. Whether it was only his imagination or a true commune with Milil, Dirk felt a familiar, overwhelming sense of warmth and approval as the offering was apparently accepted.


	6. Chapter 6

If someone had asked Dirk as a newborn lich where he pictured himself in five centuries, his answer would have been “truly dead,” if not still searching for his family’s murderer. Unlife had seemed to be a curse at the time, and he’d been willing to bear it only long enough to kill the dracolich.

Now, as the sun fell beneath the cold jagged mountain range of Skaia’s northern border and threw strokes of pastel fire across the clouds, Dirk sat in his living disguise and admired the view from his spot by the window. The ground floor of the village inn was modestly sized, but furnished like a successful hunter’s cabin. Furs covered the old wooden floor between the chairs and tables, and more pelts of various sizes and patterns hung on the walls. There were antlers and busts of animal heads, and even a few impressive hanging decorations made from braided leather and polished stones. The furniture itself was carved from sturdy wood, and the cushions seemed to be stuffed with sheep’s wool or horsehair, judging from the musty but pleasant smell. Everything was well-worn with use by the inn’s patrons over the decades, and it felt like relaxing in someone’s home rather than the sitting area of a village inn’s tavern.

The innkeeper had provided a rudimentary map of the surrounding area, and now it lay spread out on the table in front of Dirk, with various locations marked by copper coins resting on the paper. Rose sat across from him, holding another coin between her fingers as her other hand traced the northernmost mountain range. Jade sat on the floor by the adjacent fireplace with her legs crossed, her bow unstrung in her lap, and Bec on his side, curled against her like a giant white pelt had slipped from her shoulders, his front and back paws stretched out around her towards the hearth. 

The innkeeper, an older man whose lower face was obscured by a thick bush of crinkled white hair, approached and kindly offered them another round of drinks. Jade accepted a mug of spiced mead, while Rose gestured in polite refusal, her cup still half-full of elderberry wine. Dirk shook his head, and the old man returned to the bar top on the other side of the room where a handful of locals plus John were seated and having a late dinner. He could hear John’s voice between mouthfuls of food, louder than the others, but engaged in friendly conversation that doubled as information gathering. Rose placed her coin on the mountain range she’d been tracing just north of the village and kept her finger pressed against it.

“It might just be hearsay, but we can’t rule it out unless we find a better lead. I think we should start there before the snow gets worse and makes northward travel difficult.”

“Difficult for us, maybe,” Jade added, her eyes on her bow as she fitted the new string. “Bec is loving it out here, aren’t you? Yes you are,” Jade cooed, pausing to reach down and rub between his ears as Bec’s tail lazily thumped the floor a few times, his eyes closed.

“Might be a waste of time,” Dirk reminded them neutrally. “Depends on how old the location is.”

“And on whether it thaws in the summer or not, which depends on the exact location itself,” Rose continued, removing her finger from the copper coin to lift her cup and swallow before continuing, “or rather, the elevation, more specifically. I doubt the locals will know much about the soil quality.”

“If it was farmland once, they might know what crops were grown out there,” Jade added helpfully, “or if they harvested lots of mushrooms in the area. Sweet soil is good for grapes and potatoes too, but you can’t plow a field of it without finding old animal bones.”

Dirk stopped and thought for a moment, not expecting Jade’s background of being raised on a farm to help answer questions of necromantic relevance. “I’d never thought of it that way. I guess the soil’s acidity would affect the speed of bone decomposition.” Dirk shrugged. “I was always too bored by the logistics of farming to learn anything useful about it.”

“That says more about you than it does about farming,” Jade retorted, but it was good-natured compared to the way things had been in Prospit. The past few months of traveling and camping together had mended most of the resentment between them, and while Bec still wouldn’t tolerate Dirk touching him, even the white wolf had grown to accept him as an ally in combat situations. Dirk tilted his head and lifted one shoulder in a gesture that said ‘fair enough.’

“We’ll figure it out when Dave gets back,” Rose finished, the sleeve of her embroidered robe hanging elegantly from her wrist as she swirled her cup. “I do hope he remembers to haggle the price down if he finds what we need.”

“I’ll be surprised if they don’t give it to him for free,” Jade remarked in reference to their rooms at the inn being offered without charge. Apparently it was rare for the village to get visitors this close to winter, and once it became known what Dirk and the others were there to do, the villagers seemed determined to front the payment in every way possible. Dave tried to explain that his group was funded by Prospit and didn’t require compensation, but that only seemed to encourage their generosity. Speaking of which . . . 

The inn’s front door swung open with a waft of cold air, and a helmless armored figure cloaked in thick furs entered the tavern, his shoulders dusted with snow. John paused his conversation to wave a greeting, and Dave returned it before knocking the mud from his boots and pulling his gloves off to dig around in the satchel slung over his shoulder while he approached the fireplace.

“Hey guess who found exactly what we needed and had to pay for it by hiding the money under a book on the dude’s desk because he wouldn’t accept anything in return for it despite this thing being ancient and priceless and in almost perfect condition.” Dave dropped the roll of parchment on top of the map Rose and Dirk had been reading. Rose lifted an eyebrow at him and moved her cup out of the way, then carefully unrolled the yellowed parchment and lifted both eyebrows in pleasant surprise. While she scanned the old map (far older and more useful than the one beneath it on the table), Dave folded his arms over the back of Dirk’s chair and tapped Dirk’s head with one finger, his voice low and private. “Hey, did you eat anything yet? They’re gonna get suspicious if you don’t.”

“I’ll take something up to the room with me,” Dirk muttered, exasperated but resigned. During their travels he’d gotten used to people asking the others if he was sick and needed a healer. Eating and drinking felt like a waste of time and money, but Dave insisted on keeping up appearances because the concept of a benevolent lich was still unknown outside of Prospit, and Dirk didn’t really care enough to argue.

“Here,” Rose announced triumphantly, pointing at an area northeast of the village where another was marked in ink. “This should be the place, if our information is correct.”

“Do you think the graveyard is even still there?” Dave asked, and Jade groaned from her spot on the floor.

“We already debated it while you were gone! The answer is maybe. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Sweet. So whoever this potential lich-slash-necromancer is, they might be holed up in there? Sounds worth a look.” Dave clapped a hand on Dirk’s shoulder and kept it there. “Good work, team. I’m bushed. Who else is tired?”

“Go to bed, Dave.” Jade smiled, her fingers working a layer of fresh wax into her bowstring. “You’re like my grandpa, up and down with the sun. Ugh.” Rose hummed in agreement, not looking up from where she was writing notes into a small leather-bound book while glancing back and forth at the map. Both of Dave’s hands settled on Dirk’s shoulders and squeezed gently.

“Hey. Want to keep me company?” he asked softly. Dirk considered it and decided his part in the planning phase of their work was over. He nodded and stood up, then went to the tavern to order something small while Dave lingered to say goodnight to Rose and Jade. The innkeeper handed Dirk a bowl of vegetable stew and refused the coin he tried to offer as payment, while John continued his conversation with the locals at the other end of the bar top. He saw Dave approaching and shouted over the rest of the tavern to recommend the mead, before turning back to the group of locals who seemed amused at his antics. Dirk gave up trying to pay for his food as Dave took John’s advice and got the innkeeper’s attention. With their respective food and drink in hand, Dirk followed Dave upstairs to their shared room away from the lights and low hum of conversation.

Their rooms had been given to them free of charge, and each was decorated like the tavern downstairs, including a fireplace that was kept lit for heat during the cold months. Theirs also came with a large bed, a small sitting area with a table and chairs, and a window overlooking the nearby mountain range. Dirk shut the door behind him and carelessly slid his bowl of uneaten stew onto the table, fully intending to empty it into the latrine before they checked out tomorrow morning. Dave did the same with his mug of mead, and Dirk was about to sit down at the table when a pair of gauntleted arms wrapped around him from behind. He took in a sharp breath and jerked at the unexpected sensation of magic. It spread quickly from the point of contact around his midsection, unpleasantly numb and tingling as it penetrated his clothes and crawled across his skin. Dave’s grip held as Dirk unsuccessfully tried to pull away, then gritted his teeth and forced himself to hold still while Dave’s magic dispelled his living disguise. The feeling wasn’t so bad once he stopped fighting it, but he still felt the urge to shiver all over when it was finished.

“You could have just asked,” Dirk rasped as Dave stepped away, admiring his handiwork as the exposed archlich glowered at him.

“It’s good practice.” Dave smiled and shrugged, echoing Dirk’s words from months before. Dirk rolled his eyes, glowing their true, golden firelight color, as Dave turned away and began shedding the furs he’d layered over his armor, hanging them up on the hooks by the door. Dirk sat down at the table and rested his chin on his hand, then resigned himself to watching Dave unbuckle his armor (for lack of anything better to do, he told himself). His appreciation for Dave’s physique was nothing but reasonable, given the paladin’s proficiency with that heavy claymore. Dave had earned his body’s marble-sculpted quality, and as he removed the last few pieces of armor with the layer of chain mail beneath and set them aside on the floor, Dirk quickly averted his eyes to avoid getting caught.

“Have you tried the mead yet? Everyone’s recommending it,” Dave said, now clothed in his cotton tunic undergarment as he picked up the mug and took an experimental sip. He smacked his lips thoughtfully. “Tastes like cinnamon.”

“I’ll pass,” Dirk mumbled, his chin still resting on his hand.

“Does alcohol even affect you? Probably not,” Dave thought aloud, pulling the other chair away from the table to sit on it sideways. He took another drink and stared down into the mug for a long, quiet moment. “Mom loved this stuff.”

Dirk tried to hide his immediate curiosity at the mention of Dave’s parents. He knew from a combination of intuition, hints, and offhand comments from both Rose and Dave over the months that it was a painful subject. The selfish part of him wanted to make them talk about it and satisfy his curiosity, but it was insignificant compared to the larger part of him that cared deeply about Dave and wanted him to deal with it at his own pace. Thus, he feigned a lack of interest in the topic, the same way he’d react to discussion of the weather or the question of whether or not he’d tried the mead. But tonight seemed to be different, as Dave kept staring down into his mug with a quiet, brooding frown while the fireplace crackled.

“I’ve . . . never really talked about them, have I?” Dave continued on his own, like he’d read Dirk’s mind. “My parents. Me and Rose . . . our mom, and my dad.”

Sensitive to Dave’s somber tone, Dirk leaned back in his chair and gave the conversation his full attention. “I’ve been curious, but you don’t have to talk about it if-”

“Nah, I’ll spill the beans. They’re your family too,” Dave said, taking a long drink from the mug as Dirk kept his expression neutral. “I actually wasn’t around for most of it. Mom kinda ditched my dad after she had me, which, hey, I would’ve done the same. So dad took me away from her, but mom found a better guy after that and got pregnant right away with Rose, and I guess she drank a lot after Rose was born. I knew she was an alcoholic, but I didn’t see her again until I was thirteen, when she took me back after dad . . .” Dave trailed off, and seemed to consider taking another drink from the mug, before continuing. “Sorry, I hope you weren’t expecting our family to be all noble and dignified, or whatever. So much for that royal bloodline.” Dave snorted sarcastically. “Gods . . . he was always going on about that. I never really got why he hated our ancestors so much.”

Dirk frowned. “Your father . . .?”

“Yeah. He was obsessed with our royal lineage, but he blamed . . . well, you, I guess, and your parents for letting the kingdom fall. For losing our ‘rightful heritage’ because they were too weak to defend it.”

It was obvious that these words belonged to Dave’s father and not to Dave himself, but Dirk still had to take a moment and quell his anger. Dave gave him a slow, understanding nod. 

“My dad was an asshole, if that wasn’t obvious.”

“I can tell,” Dirk agreed, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice. Dave sighed and took another long drink from his mug.

“He felt like we’d been cheated out of the life we deserved, so he was obsessed with becoming strong and important and whatever. I guess he decided being a criminal was the best way to do that? I mean, he was good at it, sure, but damn, that was no way to raise a kid.” Dave’s laughter was hollow, and the sound made Dirk’s chest hurt. “I tried to stay out of it, but he dragged me into all kinds of . . . trouble and bullshit.”

“What about your grandparents?” Dirk offered, trying to steer Dave away from reliving those memories. Dave’s smile this time was small, but genuine.

“They were cool, but they died when I was still pretty young.” His hand went to the pendant medallion around his neck, and Dirk’s eyes followed. “They left me a bunch of old stuff, but dad sold everything. I found the pawn shop and traded everything I had to get this back.” Dave fidgeted with the pendant, his fingers rubbing the two opposing birds and claymore. “It was the only thing I could afford, but I took it home and hid it from him. He would’ve kicked my ass if he’d found out.” Dave grinned, and Dirk tried not to grimace.

“I’m . . . glad you got it back,” Dirk conceded. The more he learned about Dave’s upbringing, the less he wanted to hear, but Dave seemed eager to talk about it now.

“Yeah, this necklace was always my favorite out of all the heirlooms my grandparents had. I knew it was special. It felt . . . well, I guess like someone’s soul was inside of it, but I didn’t know that at the time. It just made me feel better. Like I wasn’t completely alone while my dad was out living the seedy underbelly lifestyle.” Dave shrugged, and Dirk allowed himself to smile at the thought of Dave in his childhood, taking comfort in the supernatural presence of his phylactery. “I had this game I used to play,” Dave continued, then trailed off as he seemed to reconsider.

“What kind of game?” Dirk prompted, amused and curious at Dave’s embarrassment. 

“Just, like a . . . make-believe kind of thing,” Dave mumbled while lifting the mug to his lips, his voice muffled. “It was stupid.”

“Everyone plays games when they’re young,” Dirk countered gently. “It’s not stupid. I used to sit on the courtyard wall and pretend I was a knight on horseback. My parents were very disappointed in my unprincely behavior.”

Dave laughed, then sighed in playful defeat. “Yeah, okay, I’ll fess up. I had this fantasy where I’d . . . travel back to Derse somehow. Like, I’d buy passage on a ship across the ocean, and we’d go back in time on the way there, or something,” Dave admitted, and Dirk hoped his silence was encouraging. “I’d arrive at the castle and get stopped by the guards, but then I’d show them the necklace, and they’d take me to see the king and queen, and . . . I knew the prince had been about my age when he died, so I pictured you too. Like a younger version of my dad, but more noble and aristocratic. I wasn't too far off, actually.” Dave seemed unable to meet Dirk’s eyes now, as he stared down at his mug and swirled the contents nervously. “Long story short, they’d know who I was and they’d adopt me, and I’d be like the girl in that story who finds out she’s a princess and lives happily ever after. Everybody wins. Including my dad, who gets to live out his crime lord dreams in Prospit on the other side of the ocean where I never have to see him again. He got himself killed eventually . . . in real life.” Dave finished, apparently eager to change the subject. “Mom took me in after that, and I met Rose and became the awkward stepchild, but anything was better compared to how things were before.”

There was a long pause as Dave downed the rest of his drink, then cleared his throat awkwardly. Dirk watched him slide the empty mug next to the uneaten bowl of stew, his movements only slightly uncoordinated.

“I thought about you a lot,” Dave said before Dirk could gather his thoughts. “At least, the version of you in my head. I thought about how different my life would’ve been with you, and . . . how disappointed my ancestors would be if they knew what kind of life I had with my dad.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Dirk reassured, maybe a little too quickly. Dave gave a small, sad puff of laughter.

“You weren’t there. You don’t know what he . . .” Dave took a sudden, deep breath, and looked Dirk straight in the eyes. “I don’t think I’m gonna have kids.”

Dirk froze, unsure how to reply or why Dave sounded so panicked, until he spoke again.

“Is that okay? Because unless there’s another long-lost Strider out there that we don’t know about, I’m sort of the only one who can continue our bloodline at this point, and I don’t . . . I mean, I can force myself do it, if you really want me to, but I-”

“No, Dave,” Dirk cut him off, horrified. “That’s . . . no. It's okay.”

“Oh thank the gods,” Dave exhaled. “I’ve been so fucking scared to ask, you have no idea. I mean, unless you somehow figure out how to have kids yourself, then . . . is that even possible? Holy shit,” Dave trailed off, distracted by whatever images were going through his head.

“Pretty sure that’s not possible,” Dirk muttered, embarrassed. “Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t . . . inflict myself on anyone.” Apparently he’d said something funny, because Dave snorted like he’d cracked a joke. “What?”

“Sorry, it’s just . . .” Dave had to stop and take a deep breath before answering, “you . . . really have no idea how handsome you are.”

“What?” Dirk asked, his tone flat this time. “What are you talking about? You mean when I’m in disguise?”

“Nah, I mean . . . like this,” Dave said, gesturing in Dirk’s general direction and ignoring the look he got in response. “Sure it’s not conventional, but everyone’s tastes are different.”

“Dave,” Dirk deadpanned, “I’m undead.”

“Yeah, and . . . some people are into that,” Dave shrugged awkwardly. “There’s a lot of . . . people out there, and I guarantee someone thinks you’re hot.”

“I guarantee that isn’t true,” Dirk echoed, fully believing it and not understanding the weird look Dave was suddenly giving him.

“Wanna bet?” Dave said eventually, folding his hands together on the table like he was delivering an ultimatum. “I’ll prove it. If you’ll let me.”

‘Prove what? That someone out there doesn’t think I’m horrifying?’ Dirk thought, but Dave was already standing up from his chair, reaching out one hand to steady himself on the table. Dirk’s curiosity was piqued, and a tiny, foreign spark of excitement jumped at his guilty imagination of what Dave wanted to do. ‘That can’t be what he means,’ Dirk chided himself, but now he needed to know for sure.

“Go ahead,” Dirk answered, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair to face Dave expectantly. Dirk knew what he looked like - thin and gaunt, his skin dessicated and leathery, and his eyes glowing like the flickering firelight that lit the room. He expected Dave to hesitate, but didn’t expect him to close the distance and lean down, bracing his hands on the armrests of Dirk’s chair. Then Dave hesitated again, their faces close enough that Dirk could see the dual pinpoint reflection of his own eyes in Dave’s. 

Dave looked like he was about to say something before deciding against it, and this happened several more times before he started to lean in closer, slowly and with many small pauses, like he was giving Dirk plenty of time to realize what this was and the opportunity to change his mind.

Dirk held still, and allowed Dave’s lips to find his mouth. The contact was hesitant and tentative, like he expected to be rebuked at any moment, and Dave’s hands lifted with the apparent desire to cup the sides of Dirk’s face, but stopped short and hovered, unsure if it was allowed. His fingertips eventually came to rest, trembling and feather-light, on Dirk’s cheekbones. The kiss was a simple pressure of lips, soft and yielding compared to the dry, eternally chapped condition of Dirk’s, but he quietly savored the feeling as he listened to the nervous staccato of Dave’s breathing. Dirk knew he’d been proven wrong as Dave pulled away just enough to break contact, but he was unprepared for the turmoil in Dave’s eyes, his voice shaking as he whispered.

“Is this fucked up?”

Dirk could have answered his question with excuses or reassurances (such as the significant generational gap, or the fact that they were alone and it didn’t matter what anyone thought), but instead he chose the fastest way to put Dave’s fears to rest, tilting his head and leaning in to seal their lips again. Dave was caught off guard, but recovered quickly to push into the kiss. His fingers slid into Dirk’s thin hair and gripped the sides of his head as Dave’s mouth moved, his tongue emerging to push and coax where Dirk’s lips were pressed together. Dirk hummed uncertainly in his throat, but eventually gave in, squeezing his eyes shut as Dave’s tongue slid into his mouth. He’d expected Dave to be put off by the slightly mummified quality of his body, but the kiss deepened as Dave’s tongue probed, wet and demanding against his own. Dave was breathing hard through his nose, and Dirk’s chair was pushed back a few inches as the kiss surged like the release of a dam after spring floods. Dirk lifted his hands to balance himself, first gripping the chair, then resting against Dave’s shoulders, and then draping them loosely around Dave’s neck in approval.

The kiss went from desperate and frantic to something more languid and slow, as Dirk moved to reciprocate. He met Dave’s passion halfway, their mouths sliding together while they tasted each other, which Dave was somehow still enthusiastic about doing. Dirk hummed again, pulling back just enough to speak.

“That does taste like cinnamon,” he remarked, rolling his tongue around the lingering flavor. Dave grinned, his eyes dark and hazy from more than just the alcohol. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since I met you,” Dave confessed in a whisper. “Even after you kicked our asses in the crypt.”

“You hid it well,” Dirk whispered back, matching Dave’s private tone. 

“Yeah, the suit of armor helps.” Dave exhaled a quiet puff of laughter. “The others think I’m nuts. Especially Jade.”

“They know?” Dirk leaned away, surprised.

“Yeah,” Dave nodded. “Can’t hide anything from them. They’ve known me too long. Rose says I’m her favorite open book.”

“And . . . The High Marshal?” Dirk asked reluctantly.

“Knowing Lady Peregrine, she’s figured it out. Her suspicions are never wrong.” Dave shrugged at Dirk’s mildly horrified expression. “No need to worry about it. She’s not the iron-fisted taskmaster you probably think she is, and the Order doesn’t enforce codes of conduct, despite what some people say.”

Dirk wasn’t sure he agreed, but Dave’s reassurances had placated him for now. Dave took a step back and stretched his arms over his head with an exaggerated yawn.

“Welp, that was way more beans that I was planning on spilling tonight. I don’t think I have a single bean left to my name. I’m a beanless man.” He gave Dirk a sleepy, mischievous grin. “Do you, maybe . . . want to continue this in bed? I wasn’t lying about being tired.” 

‘Continue what, exactly?’ Dirk wanted to ask. The words echoed with possibilities, but he agreed to whatever Dave had in mind and went to retrieve the book from his travel bag that he’d spent the last few nights working through. It was a detailed history of Skaia’s northern border, and it was a dry read, but detailed enough to keep his attention with its relevance to their current mission. Dave stoked the fire and added more wood from the pile near the hearth while Dirk climbed into bed, sliding his legs under the enormous fur pelts that functioned as blankets and rearranging the feather-stuffed pillows at his back until he could sit comfortably with his book in his lap. He flipped to where he’d left off last night and made it to the next page before Dave joined him.

Without turning his head, Dirk watched as Dave sat on the opposite edge of the bed and pulled his tunic off, revealing the smooth (if lightly scarred) alabaster planes of his back and shoulders. His linen pants stayed on like they usually did when he slept, and Dave positioned himself next to Dirk before slipping his legs under the covers. Then he lifted one hand to his own chest and brought the pendant medallion to his mouth - another nightly routine. Dirk watched in silence as Dave’s eyes closed and his lips moved, the prayer to Milil an inaudible whisper over the pop and crackle of the rejuvenated fireplace. When Dirk had first witnessed this and asked about it, Dave confessed that he’d been using the necklace for prayer since childhood. The heirloom was precious to him in ways that broke Dirk’s heart when he remembered how he’d taken it from Dave in the crypt, and the months that passed before he’d given it back. The prayer usually lasted only a few minutes, and Dirk had gotten distracted as he watched Dave whisper into the medallion. Dave’s eyes opened slowly as he finished, and upon noticing Dirk’s attention, he grinned and opened his mouth to press the medallion against his tongue and lick it. Dirk made an indignant sound and reached over to swat at Dave, his book forgotten.

“Please don’t _lick_ my soul,” Dirk growled, and Dave’s laugh was almost a cackle.

“Yeah, you’re right. I can think of something even better to taste,” Dave answered, his voice pitching low and husky. Dirk blinked at him in the moment of silence that followed.

“Like what? Me?” he asked flatly, and Dave practically choked on his laughter.

“Aw, come on. I thought that was really smooth,” Dave said, looking pleased with himself as he shifted closer to Dirk, then paused to throw the neglected book onto the bedside table and out of the way. Dirk allowed him to pull the covers down and held still while Dave repositioned himself to straddle Dirk’s thighs. He looked up at Dave and struggled to reconcile the anticipation in those eyes - usually reddish pink during the day, but now almost gray and colorless in the room’s low light.

“I’m still . . . confused,” Dirk admitted quietly, and Dave’s anticipation shifted into an inquisitive look.

“‘Bout what?” he murmured.

“How could you possibly find me attractive?” Dirk asked, not intending the typical gravel in his voice to catch the way it did. “I don’t understand why anyone would . . . want me, like this, the way I am now.” Saying it out loud was almost physically painful. ‘That’s strange,’ Dirk thought. He hadn’t cared about his physical appearance since he’d been alive, but with Dave’s confession and the kiss and now his apparent intentions to take things even further, the thought reared up in the back of Dirk’s mind like a venomous snake. He’d ignored it carelessly, hoping it might go away if he neglected it long enough and not seeing the harm in pretending it wasn’t there and didn’t exist. He’d been attractive once, or so he’d heard - the young prince of Derse was known to be handsome, even beautiful when not garbed in the severe formality of his station. Now he was a monster, half-dessicated and magically preserved, though he was fortunate to avoid the perpetual state of rot that most undead creatures dealt with. When Dave looked at him and saw something else, it didn’t make sense.

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” Dave asked, his half-smile more charming than it had any right to be. Dirk declined to answer, and Dave moved to kiss him again. It was at first a gentle press, then a pleasant slide and suck of wet friction, and then Dave’s hands found the edge of Dirk’s robe and lingered there conspicuously. Dave broke the kiss to lean his forehead against Dirk’s, his voice reduced to a whisper. “Can I look at you?”

Dirk replied with a questioning hum, the words not making sense as Dave’s cinnamon aftertaste lingered on his tongue again. He figured it out quickly when those soliciting hands slid further into his robe to brush against his waist, and Dirk’s muscles twitched at the unexpected contact.

“I want to take this off,” Dave clarified, amused by Dirk’s reaction, but also taking his hesitation seriously. “Is that okay? I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Dirk felt like he should be breathing heavily as his hollow stomach somehow managed to fill with butterflies. He liked the idea of Dave’s hands on him, but it wasn’t an easy thing to express with dignity, so instead he nodded, then cleared his throat and tried to find his voice.

“Yeah, that’s . . .” Dirk managed to croak as Dave waited with a soft, affectionate smile, which made it even harder to arrange his thoughts into something coherent. “I’m not . . . if it’s you, then . . . I know you’re not lying to me. It’s just hard to shut myself up and believe it.” Dirk finally strung the words together, hoping Dave would understand.

“Well hey,” Dave murmured, not upset in the slightest, “I don’t mind proving it to you in . . . every way possible, if you’ll let me. We can keep going, and you can stop me if you’re not feeling it, or whatever. I’m up for anything. Does that sound okay?”

There was a heavy implication in there somewhere, but Dirk made a conscious decision not to overthink it. He wanted Dave’s hands on him, so he moved to undo the cloth belt on his robe. Dave’s knees were in the way, but he shifted to make room once he caught on, then helped Dirk remove the garment. The robe was pulled out from beneath him and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, and Dirk couldn’t help folding his bare arms over himself. He still had his linen breeches from the waist down, but everything else (including his dessicated stomach and chest with its visible ribs) was now on display. Dave reached out and touched his shoulder, then gently coaxed him into unfolding his arms.

“See? Not so bad,” Dave whispered, pressing the palm of his hand against Dirk’s chest, then trailing those fingers down his bony sternum. The noise Dirk made in response was disagreeing and uncertain, but Dave’s eyes were following his own hand as it mapped out the curve of Dirk’s waist. The touch was soothing, and Dirk felt himself relaxing without thinking about it. Dave repeated the motion along Dirk’s collarbone, following the dip in his throat and trailing the back of his fingers up the side of Dirk’s neck. 

The moment was quiet and warm, and Dave’s attention was thoughtful and slow and affectionate. When he leaned in to press his mouth to the spot beneath Dirk’s ear, Dirk sighed approvingly and let his head fall back to give him room. Both of Dave’s hands were at his waist now, and they pulled Dirk closer as Dave mouthed at his neck, causing him to slide down from his sitting position until he was on his back. The repositioning had been intentional, apparently. Dave nuzzled at his neck, and Dirk sighed tolerantly, but took the welcome opportunity to card his fingers through Dave’s soft, white hair. Dave’s voice was muffled against his throat.

“You smell like the oldest, dustiest book in Rose’s antique collection.” Dave took in a deep breath through his nose, and Dirk fought the urge to smack him as it tickled. “Yep. Old parchment and dust and, like, a pile of fresh bark mulch.”

“You find that appealing?” Dirk asked doubtfully, trying to hide his insecurity at the coming answer. Dave’s response was to mouth at his neck a few more times, before working his way lower to Dirk’s collarbone. 

“Mmhm,” he hummed affirmatively, and didn’t elaborate further. Dave seemed happily occupied with tasting Dirk’s skin. Meanwhile, his hands had come to rest just above Dirk’s breeches, and his fingers were surreptitiously caressing and sneaking beneath the waistband. Dirk did his best to relax, but Dave apparently felt the tension in his body, rising up on his elbows to meet Dirk’s eyes. “You can tell me to stop,” he offered gently.

Dirk felt himself go through several emotions as he looked at Dave, partially silhouetted by the firelight and leaning over him in bed with those half-lidded eyes and lips close enough to kiss, while the pendant medallion dangled between them from its silver chain. Dirk had been nervous about this part to begin with, and as the situation presented itself, he realized that stopping now and waiting until later to try again wasn’t going to change anything. He hadn’t given much thought to sex after dying, and while he still had the necessary equipment, he was fairly certain it was all nonfunctional. Masturbation hadn’t even crossed his mind, and his sex drive seemed mostly nonexistent before he met Dave. Still, Dirk thought about it and realized he didn’t want this to stop, even if it meant dealing with Dave’s disappointment now rather than later.

“Pretty sure nothing works down there,” Dirk muttered, averting his eyes to avoid seeing Dave’s reaction, “but . . . you can do whatever you want.” He waited a moment before glancing back at Dave, forcing himself to be honest. “This . . . feels good.”

“Yeah?” Dave whispered, leaning in close to touch their foreheads together while his fingers returned to the waistband of Dirk’s pants. “Then, is it okay if I . . . ?”

Dirk nodded, and knew he’d be blushing down to his shoulders if he were alive. He turned his head and refused to watch as Dave removed the last of his clothing and discarded it over the side of the bed. Then Dave’s weight shifted, and Dirk squeezed his eyes shut as hands nudged his legs apart, allowing Dave to kneel between them when he complied. Those hands returned a moment later to frame his hips, thumbs caressing the sensitive junction between his thighs and pelvis as Dave spent the next few minutes examining his sex. It was just as leathery and dried out as the rest of him, but Dave was apparently fascinated enough to stop and stare, until Dirk had to resist the urge to cover his face with his hands.

“So, if you’re ‘pretty sure’ nothing works, does that mean you haven’t tried to get off since you-know-what happened, or . . . ?” Dave prompted, and Dirk opened his eyes to give Dave a reluctant, embarrassed look, but was distracted at the sight of himself exposed, with Dave’s hands leisurely rubbing his hips as he knelt between Dirk’s spread legs. Dirk shifted anxiously at the position, and when Dave leaned forward to slide his hands reassuringly up and down Dirk’s sides, he noticed the obvious tent at the front of Dave’s pants.

“I haven’t tried,” Dirk confirmed, and almost left it at that. “I just . . . never bothered. I had more important things to do.”

“Do you mind if I try?” Dave asked with a self-assuredness that Dirk was envious of.

“Sure,” Dirk replied, ignoring the butterflies’ triumphant return to his stomach, “just don’t be disappointed when nothing happens.”

Dave grinned at him, but it was dark and promising compared to before, and Dirk watched as he slid even further down the bed, his arms hooking beneath Dirk’s thighs. Only the top of his head was visible now, and Dirk flinched when something wet pressed unexpectedly against the inside of his hip. Dave started to lick and suck at his skin, an obvious prelude to where he intended to go next. It felt strange having someone’s mouth where no one had ever touched him before. He decided Dave’s tongue was especially nice, and when Dave started to move towards his true destination, Dirk turned away and tensed up in anticipation, then flinched, his legs twitching as Dave’s mouth surrounded his flaccid dick.

Dirk didn’t need to breathe, but he found himself gasping at the sensation between his legs. The grip around his thighs tightened as Dirk shifted restlessly, and the combination of wet heat and smooth, sliding friction was novel and intense, even if he might not get off from it. Any pleasure he was feeling had to be psychological, like a mental feedback from the position and the way Dave was making little sounds in his throat like Dirk was the most heavenly delicious thing he’d ever tasted. 

Dave was practically devouring him, and Dirk’s entire body moved when the grip around his legs tightened again, pulling him closer and deeper into Dave’s mouth. He wasn’t getting hard, but that didn’t seem to discourage Dave in the slightest, and once his nervousness faded, Dirk allowed himself to relax as Dave enthusiastically enjoyed himself. When a faint pleasure began to stir in his gut, Dirk wrote it off as more psychological feedback. He’d gotten comfortable with Dave’s tireless, self-indulgent licking and sucking, which was apparently just as much for his own pleasure as it was for Dirk’s, and he didn’t want to get Dave’s hopes up by acting like he might get off from it. 

With that in mind, Dirk relaxed on his back and tried very hard to ignore the restless feeling in his body. The pleasure was all in his head. Dirk’s thighs twitched where Dave’s arms were still holding him captive. The feeling of Dave’s tongue sliding back and forth seemed more intense than it did a minute ago, to the point where it was distracting. Dirk made a small, involuntary sound in his throat, and Dave’s head tilted so he could glance up. Dirk looked away, embarrassed, then found himself gritting his teeth against the urge to make more noise. Something was building and burning sweetly in his gut, which didn’t make sense, because he still wasn’t hard. He let out the air he’d been holding in his lungs, but couldn’t stop his legs from shivering and twitching.

Dave’s eyes were unreadable. He watched Dirk intently as he continued his obscene work, until Dirk lost the battle against the urge to roll his hips into Dave’s face. Giving in to the movement felt incredible, so he did it again, his back arching against the bed. He sucked in air and stopped fighting the urge to breathe hard, and Dave’s hands rubbed his thighs in approval, encouraging him. As Dirk’s fingers dug into the pillow behind his head, Dave released one of Dirk’s thighs and moved his hand down and out of sight. Dirk heard him breathing hard a moment later, and realized what he was doing to himself. Dave’s occasional hums became more frequent and punctuated with strangled, throaty sounds of pleasure, and it made Dirk’s insides burn. He released the pillow and slid his fingers into Dave’s white hair, petting and shaking with restraint so he wouldn’t grab a handful of it like he wanted to.

Another feeling started to build beneath the first, like water in a heated kettle finally coming to a boil. It snuffed out all coherent thought, and Dirk shook at the realization of what was happening to him, trying to curl in on himself as much as he could with Dave’s head anchored between his legs. He was trembling and panting like a living thing, noisy and uncontrolled, drowning in the feeling of ‘not enough, please, I need more,’ and ‘too much, I’m so close, I can’t stop!’ but the words came out as incoherent sounds. Dave seemed to understand regardless, and the pressure and wet friction increased until Dirk was clutching at Dave’s shoulders, his hips jerking uselessly as the pleasure reached a euphoric, unbearable peak. The orgasm was dry even as it made his flaccid sex twitch against Dave’s tongue, but his body was wracked with the aftershocks as it forced sounds of anguished pleasure from his throat. He held onto Dave’s shoulders and rode through it, shaking and gasping to catch the breath he didn’t need.

Just as Dirk started to recover, Dave released him and straightened up, then took Dirk’s shoulders and pushed him down onto his back. He’d pulled his pants down earlier to touch himself, and now Dave’s cock was swollen and flushed, and much bigger than Dirk had been expecting, but he lost sight of it when Dave stretched out on top of him, pressing Dirk into the bed with his weight and bringing their bodies together in a way that made Dirk’s pleasure-scorched mind tingle with residual delight. 

Dave didn’t waste any time aligning himself to grind his erection against the inside of Dirk’s hip, and his movements were already wound-up and urgent from the start. He must have been close when Dirk reached his orgasm, and now he clutched at Dirk’s shoulders and panted into his neck, the sound loud and harsh with need. Dirk relished the feeling as he desperately sought friction against Dirk’s body, and assisted him by wrapping his legs around Dave’s waist. It changed the angle, and Dave shuddered as he thrusted, hard and uncoordinated, into the junction between Dirk’s leg and pelvis, right alongside his spent sex. Dirk carded his fingers into Dave’s sweaty hair and held him while he came undone, shaking and cursing through gritted teeth as his hips jerked, then locked. He could feel Dave’s sex twitching, leaking spurts of thick, wet cum onto his skin that smeared with Dave’s exhausted follow-up rocking. 

Once he’d caught his breath, Dave lifted himself and pulled his pants the rest of the way off, then used them to clean up the mess he’d made. He threw the article of clothing to the floor with the rest of their clothes and reattached himself to Dirk’s side before reaching down and grabbing one of the fur pelts, pulling it up to cover them both. Dave pressed his mouth against Dirk’s ear after kissing the spot beneath it and wrapped an arm around his chest.

“Holy shit, that felt so fucking good. Tell me that felt good. Did I do a good job?”

Dirk laughed softly and basked in Dave’s answering smile, knowing he was going to treasure it for eternity.

“I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong,” he admitted, and Dave’s smile widened into a grin.

“Yeah well, that’s why I think the first thing you should’ve done after crawling from the grave was try to masturbate. That way you wouldn't’ve had to wait five hundred years for me to be born and grow up and become a paladin and for us to almost mutually kill each other before saving each other and then go on a lich hunting trip where I get tipsy enough on spiced mead to confess my feelings and salaciously proposition my undead ancestor. Could’ve saved a lot of time and effort, is all I’m saying.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Dirk said, humoring him as Dave surrendered to a sleepy yawn. Everything was warm and comfortable, and Dirk allowed himself to relax in Dave’s arms as one of them drifted off to sleep. Later, he’d retrieve his book and try to finish it before they all headed out tomorrow, but for now he was content to close his eyes and listen to the quiet rhythm of Dave’s breathing, along with the comforting hiss and crackle of the fireplace as he thought about his family, stretching countless generations from antiquity to himself, and finally, to Dave. He thought about Dave and the circumstances that brought them together, and found that he had no bitterness left when he remembered that day, when he’d fallen in the castle and awoken in his grave. Fate had brought them together, and now as the archlich rested, safe and loved in the paladin’s arms, he could do nothing but quietly thank the gods that it was so.


End file.
